


The Funny Thing About Notes

by waydurie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Dinner?, Flirting, History Class, M/M, Notes, Public Hand Jobs, Seduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:30:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2021634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waydurie/pseuds/waydurie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock loathes having to attend history class when he is majoring in chemistry. After arriving 10 minutes late to Mr Lestrades class and humiliating him infront of the class, Sherlock seems to find a fan in his table partner. This would be one of those occasions the universe does become lazy and allows coinsidences to happen and naughty ones too A hand job in class. What would Mycroft do if he found out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy. It might not be the best since this is the actual sequential smut scene I've written and not just gone into slight details. Don't be afraid to leave comment/kudos ! See ya xx

**_Bored._ ** Sherlock Holmes was extremely, unbelievably bored. (But wasn't he always?) And the fact that he was to be at a history made Sherlock feel all of his valuable brain cells die from waste. When making the school curriculum, who decided, let's dedicate an an hour of perfectly good time to reflect on a past that has no relevance to the modern age of science? Because now, Sherlock was expected to care about the deaths of pitiful rulers, and tiresome events that have no connection to his life nor any practical job. Because really, in what job requires you to know who was the last king of England, or if Christopher Columbus sailed the Pacific or Atlantic Ocean?

Since history rated so low on Sherlock's scale of importance, he had purposefully slept in, so now he was running ten minutes late to class. _Splendid!_ Albeit, since school had only just started three weeks ago, and blaming it on the distance between the buildings was reasonable excuse for a first year student.

However, Sherlock thought, if he was given the 'dreaded' ultimatum and forced to explain why he was late, Sherlock would certainly enjoy the spotlight, the attention, it's one of the reasons why he deduces people in crowds. He would give the low-life plebeians who were fortunate enough to hear his honest, unedited opinion on the corrupted board of education and how they had no right to force students to attend classes that were far from their field of study. Then he would continue on and say that he was of age and that it is his right to do what he wants with his time.

But, only if he was given the chance would he expose this sensitive information. Sherlock didn't need the other students getting ideas of their own. How tedious it is when other people try to think.

It took Sherlock another three minutes to get anywhere near his history class. When found the plaque with the correct classroom number, he through open the doors with a touch of dramatic rebellion and a hint of flair. He strolled in, a smug yet blasé look on his face for added emphasis. His teacher Mr Lestrade had been talking to the class, going over the day's activities when Sherlock burst in. The sliver-haired man simply rolled his eyes and gave a long winded sigh. He was most definitely not amused.

 _Of course,_ thought Lestrade. _Right on time with his BAFTA nominated performance. God forbid he ever should win. If he's insufferable now, what would it be like after winning an academy award? Lestrade had expected no less from Sherlock since his entrances only became more theatric with every class_.

He just wished Sherlock would've give him a break this time. Maybe Sherlock could even skip a few classes. No one in the board had to know, it's not them who has to deal with Sherlock Holmes twice a week. And this wouldn't be the first time he's had to lie on the attendance sheets to make himself -- he means his class look good.

"Good morning, Sherlock. I see you've decided to come to class this morning." Mr Lestrade said in a jaded tone. He daren't push the reprimand any further. Wouldn't want to start world war three so early in the morning.

"Mmm, yes. It appears that I have. However, we both know it's not because I have a choice." He ran a hand through his dark curls with a haughty look on his face. "How did the conversation with the wife go yesterday Lestrade? Or should I say ex-wife if she's told you about the affair with the accountant in Kent. Such a shame that --"

"That's great, Sherlock. Just take your stuff, and go sit down somewhere --anywhere." Lestrade was had a vice-like grip on the edge of his desk with one hand while the other waved tiredly in the other direction. His face paled by the second and his eyes began to glaze over, he lowered his head to focus on the papers below to avoid the scorn of others. Sherlock then looked at his classmates, he now noticed how dreadfully silent they've been during his riveting thespian act.

 _That's odd,_ Sherlock commented. Usually when he barged into class with his snarky excuses or scathing deductions, there were always some suppressed giggles or low whispers hoping if 'the freak gets laid, and quick, maybe then he'll calm down.'

Still the class stood at a radio silence and Sherlock's ego deflated like the release of a balloon. He thrived on the other people's reaction when he dissected someone's life with no remorse, with no regret and left them to pick up the pieces. It had never gotten to the point where no one --and he meant no one-- failed to react to his slinging of insults.

Every one --at least someone-- usually reacts even if it's to insult him. Which is preferable to nothing at all. Lestrade might've failed in saving his marriage, but Sherlock Holmes had failed to do what he does best. He had failed to show off, to show his superiority.

When he broke out of his pathetic trance, he went to look for an empty chair. Since history was a mandatory course, it had more students on the roster. When it came to seats, --and especially since he always came to class the latest-- he never had much of a choice who he got stuck with as a table partner. To this day, there hadn't been a class where every student had been in attendance. But today, it appeared everyone was desperate to open their textbooks and learn about the many failures of England's.

Every table he passed by had been taken up by irritated students who only knew how to stare at him as he walked to the back. Like that would accomplish anything, Sherlock snorted. When he reached the center rows of desks, Sally Donovan flashed him with a demented sneer and mouthed the words freak. Once again, it in no way affected Sherlock nor did it deterred him from further deductions. In any case, it urged him to find the limit even faster, to push them further, break them so they would think twice before they doubt the damage he could cause with a few words.

Sherlock spotted an open chair when he reached the last row of desks. It was enough to put his stuff down and 'take notes,' and if he used the angles to his favor, a nap would be quite nice. However, he decided to stick to his notes since they varied on his train of thought and Sherlock had many things on his mind at the moment.

At times he would write down potential experiments he would like to conduct in his dorm. But when that became too tiresome, Sherlock would start from the most scandalous person in the classroom and make his way down until his page was bursting with deductions. Sherlock's hadn't found the need to share a desk so far in Uni, so he wondered if he could still plow through his routine with a spectator by his side.

With dignified posture and gait, Sherlock approached the empty space and pulled out the chair closest to the wall. There was a boy occupying the aisle seat, but Sherlock had dismissed him immediately since he had no impact in his life.

Sherlock set his moleskin notebook on the graffitied desk parallel to a ballpoint pen. He flipped through the ink stained pages before he landed on a crisp sheet of paper. So, now Sherlock Holmes was finally ready to start class (or whatever the hell it was he did during that hour). He believed that as long as he followed his primary rule, 'ignore everything and still pass the term with outstanding marks,' everything else was unnecessary.

It looked like Lestrade had finally came to terms with his sad, miserable life, and picked up on his conversation. His voice sounded considerably strained, but if no one were to know of the slew of insults Sherlock had thrown at him earlier, they would have just guessed it was lack of sleep.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes later when he saw a folded piece of lined paper land on top of his notebook. _Great. Now the imbecile besides me fancies a chat. How can he possibly think I would talk to someone as dull as him. It must be amazing in those tiny little brains of theirs._ Sherlock was silently fuming away in his corner. Brooding, stewing, and bubbling like a volcano waiting to erupt.

He ignored the folded note for several reasons, and began writing about the molecular structure of nucleic acids. His hands were flying across the paper, sketching diagrams, modifying the formulas that have been used for decades. Sherlock was a machine set on work mode.

Two minutes later, a second note landed on his notebook. It was folded into a crisp square and on the front it said **'open me'.** Sherlock sighed. He was annoyed, of course, infuriated if you will. Don't people know when they were being ignored? Or have they become too reliant on technology to use their common sense? If Sherlock purposefully ignored the first message, why bother sending a second?

Sherlock had no intention of even coming into contact with the slips of paper, so he continued with his adept observations as the notes went disregarded.

It was two minutes and thirty seven seconds before the next message plopped in to the palm of Sherlock's left hand unexpectedly. He was outraged, purely miffed that this person thought they had the right not only to harass him, but also invade his valued personal space. **_Unbelievable._ ** Sherlock had to know the name of this philistine so he could report him to the board (better yet, Mycroft but then that would be asking for favors and he rather not owe the whale anything) after class.

That was when Sherlock decided he needed to look at this relentless offender that may or may not have him debauched by the end of the night. He surreptitiously tuned his neck to the left and got a view of the so-called molester that ran rampant through the streets.

The human embodiment of sunshine in no way could have or could ever be a molester no matter how hard they tried, Sherlock thought. This boy radiated warmth and brightness and he was so far from a molester, Sherlock cringed with disgust that moments ago he had accused such brilliance of criminal involvement.

The boy was miles away from a paedophile, possible rapist, or even a drug lord/junkie. And that had been the first time he had ever regretted speaking ill of someone, and this change was supposed to be frighting. But Sherlock was surprisingly okay.

Sherlock first saw two dauntless steel blue eyes staring right at him. He also caught a glimpse of slightly parted pink lips. The scent of warm cinnamon and milky tea lingered on the stitches of his cream colored jumper.

Sherlock had never gotten the point on people's fixation with hair. Or having to spend hours of your time and great sums of your money to get the accumulation of dead skin calls 'shiny'. But when he saw the myriad of golds being reflected off of every strand on the boy's fringed hair, Sherlock started seeing the advantages of hair product.

Oh _god_. He's turning into a girl, isn't he. He's talking about hair products and how their good for making your hair nice and shiny. Someone save him before it's too late.

Sherlock felt like he had stared at the sun for an eternity. But in reality he had only glanced over the boy for approximately three seconds. Yet, his corneas had fused to his scleras, and both of his retinas had been ripped into shreds, he would go as far as saying confetti.

Sherlock looked down at the table to hide the look of shame on his face. But this time, his face was tilted in the direction of his sun --he meant the other boy. He saw the boy repeatedly tap his pencil on the desk using his left hand while his right was turned upwards. Was he expecting something? A note! Of course! Sherlock picked up the first piece of folded paper that he had previously ignore and read the message.

**_You're a feisty one aren't you? ;) How did you know about Mr L and his wife? I thought it was brilliant by the way. You're brilliant! -JW_ **

Sherlock took a moment to breathe. It became so, that his lungs have forgotten their main function in the last thirty seconds or so. A giddy, schoolgirl crush feeling bubbled in Sherlock's stomach as he still had two more notes to read.

He definitely wasn't proud of this unnatural stirring of thoughts and flutters in his stomach. Especially when it was over something trite like --may the lord protect his soul-- emotion. In Sherlock's defense, a high-functioning sociopath's (well, him in particular) only goal in life was showing off. And since no one had indulged him earlier, he was going to accept every ounce of attention.

The next note laid inches away from his fingers. His arm itched and urged him to reach out for the note but Sherlock needed to demonstrate self-control. He could't let the other boy know the effect he was having on Sherlock. But eventually the phantom pains won over and Sherlock drank in every word with his thirsty eyes.

**_No answer? What a pity. :( Did I tell you how sexy you look when you tell people about their lives? Makes you even more irresistible than you already are. Might not be able to keep my hands off of you, fair warning. ;) -JW_ **

The note warranted a blush from Sherlock, so he permitted the cursed chemical reaction considering the lustful contents. Here was Sherlock, all innocent (well... almost) trying to get his work done when a strange but incredibly delicious man begins to seduce him. (And most importantly, is actually succeeding.)

The adrenaline in Sherlock's veins accelerates, boils, and bubbles under his skin. Static, heat, desire began to signal off of Sherlock's body, and he was receiving similar reactions from the body next to his. Ethereal friction surged through them with every passing moment. Never has Sherlock felt so aware of another person's existence.

**_I see. You're playing hard to get. ;) I like it when they put up a challenge, the tough ones are usually the best. But you're different, aren't you? You think you're above everything but you're still human like the rest of us. No need to worry, Hun, I'll be here waiting for you when you decide what you want. -JW_ **

His jaw went lax when he read JW's last message. And here he was, thinking the world was filled with morons that have yet to discover the difference between their left and right foot.

JW's deduction might've been faulty at best (Sherlock is anything but human as he has been reliably informed) but there was enough reasoning behind his thinking that made it sound convincing. Sherlock was surprised.

Sherlock thought it would only be fair to answer back to JW since he has been persistent so far. Sherlock expertly ripped a blank page from his notebook and divided it into four sections. One thing Sherlock had never run out of was words. Sherlock always had something to say, and everyone knew he would outlive god in order to get the last word.

Strangely now, he found himself speechless. Better yet, he couldn't quite find the right words. He finally settled on something appropriate and Sherlockian for his contribution in the conversation. _Two could play at this game._

**_ Beauty is a construct based on childhood impressions, influences, and role models. However, I'm flattered to be considered amongst those you consider 'beautiful,' or how you said, 'sexy.' And no, I'm not playing hard to get nor do I believe I am above anyone. I just enjoy showing everyone else how incompetent they are. SH _ **

  
There. Everything he said had been honest, concise, and didn't have desperate, hormonal teenager written between the lines. It wasn't like he was wriggling in his seat because of the slight breeze blowing against his extremely sensitive skin.

Sherlock nonchalantly placed the note into JW's upturned palm and sagged slightly in the plastic chair. Decades (seconds) later, Sherlock heard the distinct crinkle of paper when JW's fingers met his in passing. Sherlock felt a raw spark, a crackle of uncontrollable electricity shatter the last vestige of ignorance.

**_Modest, aren't you? I like to hear someone speak the truth, without a filter. There's enough falsities in society, why have them in your everyday life. Lucky I met you, right? I don't think you're the kind of person who would lie for fun. So, do you have a girlfriend? -JW_ **

Quicksilver eyes scanned over the message multiple times. He didn't want to have had skipped over anything important or subtle that could be useful in the future. But once Sherlock was sure he knew how to approach JW with his answer, he supplied himself with a clean corner of paper. He wrote in his natural mess of loopy swirls and flicked the paper across the table quite satisfied with his intelligent repartee.

**_ Modesty is irrelevant. However, I've been reliably informed that it is not a joyous moment meeting me. So, I would say that it is up for debate whether you find my company pleasant. I must say one should never be so quick to theorize without all the evidence, but you are partially right. I despise lying if the situation does not call for it. And as for girlfriends...they're not really my area. SH _ **

Sherlock realized he had been watching JW ever since he had tossed the slip of paper over. JW covered his writing with his hand to prevent Sherlock from peeking. The tip of his tongue teasingly poked out of JW's mouth as he finished jotting down the last few words. The blond boy seemed satisfied with what he'd written as he slid the note across the table with a lopsided grin and a flirtatious wink.

**_Good thing I'm not a girl then. ;) I'm may be just the right type for you Sherlock Holmes. I mean, you wouldn't be talking to me still if I was boring. Oh the things I want to do to that pale skin of yours. Words cannot describe how long I've waited for you to notice me. The one and only, Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps dreams do come true. -JW_ **

Sherlock wondered if he had been transported out into the ocean. Somewhere in the high seas without any assistance and his only option was to drown with all of his miseries and regrets.

He couldn't catch his breath, the supposed ebb and flow of his lungs had been interrupted. His racing mind had lulled, gone into hibernation and offered no solution to this oncoming crisis.

Not even during his occasional heroin sprees had he ever experienced such silence, such peace. There were no overlapping thoughts bouncing around the inside of his skull because now he had only one focus in mind. The all consuming JW.

** _I confirm that you are not a female. Congratulations, I guess. But may I ask what exactly would you do to my skin? Thought I don't understand what benefit you will get from that since it is neither sanitary nor practical. SH_ **

Once the note landed in John's hand, a devious smirk brought to light how much he was enjoying the conversation. And Sherlock felt played for having just given JW the answer he was looking for.

**_I bet you have really sensitive skin, so when I start kissing and nibbling down your neck, chest, hips, if you're lucky. Every mark, every kiss, and bruise, will be there for everyone to see that I, John Watson made you scream. Made you shout my name all night. JW_ **

Sherlock had learned two very important things upon receiving the last note. First, JW finally had a name, and it was John Watson. (How appropriate. Strong, forward, much like the owner.)

And secondly, his heart was due any moment to turn into electrically charged particles with enough fuel to power all the cabs in London. The beating muscle was rendered useless. It was beating so quickly that it would do Sherlock a favor if it stopped beating. He couldn't let these emotions (those damn hormones) get in the middle of such a rare, and incredible opportunity.

John Watson. Now synonymous with the word incredible.

**_ Skin color has no pertinence to skin sensitivity. However, in my case, my epidermis is particularly thin. I also lack the vitamin C to prevent the bruises from forming. But if you're searching for candidates to test your theory, I wouldn't mind being your test subject. Especially if you can so confidently claim to domesticate me. SH _ **

John, the cheeky bastard, had a satisfied look on his face as he read Sherlock's rushed cursive. Blocking Sherlock's view of the paper, he wrote furiously trying to keep the wolfish gleam out of his eyes.

John Watson was trouble. He was the orange flames parents told you never to touch. the hot embers that burned through wood, steel, anything that stood in it's path. And Sherlock. Well, Sherlock was the house John had been set on burning. John had latched himself onto the measured and precise Sherlock Holmes and just like fire, he was crumbling him down to ashes.

However, with those ashes, John hoped to build a new building, a new Sherlock. One that could feel at peace with the world. He didn't expect Sherlock to change who he was, but he wanted the enigmatic boy to be happy.

John saw Sherlock's cosmic blue eyes stare at him as they were being torn apart by a black hole. Sherlock's dilated pupils, and flushed cheeks made John realize how invested he was with another person who has met him for the first time today. Their hearts rushed with fervor, moving along to their cries of anticipation.

**_They say brain is the new sexy and I think they're right. So, if you keep talking like that, I might not be able to wait any longer to get those results. Because now that I have a test subject, experiments of with such precedence like this one, requires immediate testing. Especially, when you're giving me control. What do you say? When shall we begin? -JW_ **

As Sherlock read the subtly pornographic note, (subtextual innuendos, of course. They had some class left in them even when the hormones had taken over.) a warm hand landed on his knee. After a briefly squeeze, John left his hand on Sherlock's leg and sighed in contentment.

The radiant warmth of John's hand began to bleed through the material of Sherlock's black trousers. All of Sherlock's nerve endings in the surrounding area frazzled, and exploded. The synapses in his brain denied to think about anything of importance. Funny he should say that, because his brain now had a new definition for important. If it wasn't John, it wasn't considered relevant.

That was when Sherlock noticed the uncomfortable pressure pressing against the front of his pants. Honestly, Sherlock had been semi-aware of the building pressure during his exchange with John, but now the realization had hit him.

Sherlock didn't just find John interesting intellectually like he did a good puzzle. No, he saw John. He _really_ saw John. Sherlock saw potential in John, and saw him as an (slightly-less-but-almost-there-if-you-actually-tried-but-that-would-be-impossible) equal. He wasn't immediately put off when John opened his mouth (well, when he read his notes) and had been able to see beauty behind such ordinary features. The twitching cock in his pants wasn't fueled by hormones but by earnest attraction.

Sherlock thought he could best access the events to come (no pun intended...at least for now he hoped) with a thorough assessment. So first, he looked down at his bony knees to see golden fingers now wrapped around his inner thigh.

Then, he went on to catalogue the embarrassing yet very demanding bulge. He had to say he was most surprised at the size considering the short amount of time it's been since he's become aroused. The last time he had dealt with an erection was once when he was fifteen and tried to prove to Mycroft (and his class) he wasn't afraid of sex.

John's fingers moved up Sherlock's thigh before he stopped and used his thumb to trace light circles. Sherlock's breath hitched even higher as the sensation of John's thumb made his swelling cock, throb and twitch with a vengeance.

John had a suggestive look written on his face but Sherlock refused to meet his eyes. He knew the moment their eyes connected there would be no stopping them. There would be no force strong enough to separate the budding admiration between them. And Sherlock didn't know if he was ready to give it all away.

The oscillating thumb stopped and Sherlock felt his heart stop along with it. Luckily, the motion picked up again when the hand laid further up his thigh. Feather light fingertips brushed along the inside of his thigh. Running back and forth several times before coming to rest inches from his crotch.

For being a self-proclaimed genius, he was unbelievably slow when being sought out sexually. John was practically begging for permission to ravish him in the middle of class and there Sherlock sat thinking about how to go about processing John. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

John's patiences was running out but Sherlock had finally gotten the hint. "Go on. Show me how human I am, John Watson." Sherlock whispered in his rich baritone, his breath a ghost in John's ear.

No more than five seconds later there was a hand resting on top of his rock hard cock. Sherlock harshly bit into his bottom lip to hold back the groan of relief of finally being touched. The friction of fabric against his sensitive prick felt unlike anything else. Crackling pops of color were bursting in the air around him like fireworks.

John was set on teasing Sherlock during their escapade. Couldn't John just make him come as quickly as possible so Sherlock could try to reciprocate the deed.

John softly pressed the heel of his hand down on Sherlock's erection putting more friction between the skin and fabric. His muscles began to melt into a puddle of sated happiness. At this point, he could only feel John's presences beside him and the magnificent hand on his groin.

Sherlock's breath became erratic as did his already soaring heartbeat because John was putting Sherlock through this agony so he would finally admit to having humans needs, and that he needed someone's help. (Well a someone's help)

He couldn't take the tantalizingly slow promise of a climax, Sherlock needed John, all of John now. Sherlock held onto the supports of the chair and slightly arched his hips from the seat. He ground his pelvis into the palm of John's hand with the occasional bucking of the hips. Sherlock settled back into the chair and tipped back his mop of chocolate curls letting them fall on to the head rest. His usually astute voice now pleaded in a broken whimper, "Please, John. _Please_."

There. Sherlock Holmes had asked, no, begged John to continue. To stop with the games and show him why he should hand himself over to the doctor-to-be.

Since Sherlock's eyes were closed, he wasn't able to see the pleased smile on John's face as he went on to cover his mouth with his left hand. John wheezed and coughed, his chest rattling right next to Sherlock. Students asked John if he was alright, or if he needed the nurse. But Lestrade told them to get back to work and Mr Watson could do as he pleased. Even Sherlock who claimed to be above all things human looked over at John worriedly. John, however, winked.

That bastard. Sherlock felt cool air on the fiery skin of his eager cock. Shivers of delight ripple through him feeling better than any drug. Since Sherlock had been so distracted with John's fit, he had missed the relieving release of pressure asphyxiating his prick. How brilliant! John had used the coughs to mask the noise of a lowering zipper. Sherlock thought humanity wasn't as doomed as he had been led to believe. Or maybe it was just John.

Deft fingers popped open the trouser button in one swift move. Sherlock wanted to sob, he was thrilled someone found him pleasing enough to actively want to engage in fellatio with him. However, the needy sigh he gave was as far as he would go in regards to the crying.

Sherlock had always been one for comfort and spending within reason of your social class, so when John grabbed the base of his cock through his silk boxers, he thanked the Chinese for their wonderful contribution for later generations.

The cool, silky fabric was pressed flush against his burning arousal. It reminded him of earlier summers with him sitting on the porch with a cold glass of lemonade in his hands while the rest of the world melted away.

John trailed his fingers down the length of his fully hard cock from above the silken underwear. His fingers slipped inside the fly of his boxer and loosely grabbed Sherlock in a lose hold. As if dealing with precious items, John took out the hard shaft of Sherlock's penis and held the hot, heavy weight in his hand somewhat more firmly. Sherlock grunted which he covered with a yawn as John began to move his hands down in a rhythmic fashion.

He would start at the base of Sherlock's blood-hot erection and then slowly pull up, twisting his wrist when he reached the head of the cock. Using the pad of his thumb, John would collect the pre-come that steadily streamed from the slit and spread it down the whole length. Acting as a natural lubricant, the pre-come made John's speed go from impossibly slow to acceptable-but-still-not-enough in a comfortable way.

Sherlock was in a fully immersed state of euphoria. It was magical, unbelievable, and so rare to Sherlock to be so blissful when all he has ever known is pain. John had washed up along the shore like the ocean waves, taking the bad and showering him with hidden beauties of the deep.

It had gotten to the point where Sherlock had had to breath through his mouth because breathing through his nose alone would lead to oxygen deprivation. His hands tried to grasp for purchase on the edge of their shared desk but his once again brain refused to coordinate. And his limbs were the victims of it's neglect for the time being.

Sherlock almost screamed when John grabbed his iron-hard prick with his palm and used the tips of his to tap a beat erotically on the underside of his shaft. A spectacular rush of desire had woken his every sense sending a prickling feeling down his spine .

Oh but John loved to tease Sherlock very much. He was on a mission to show Sherlock that first, despite all the crap he says about not having feelings, that he's as human as everyone else. Second, after today, Sherlock would have to decide if he would let John into his life or continue as heartless transport.

John had always been fascinated with Sherlock, and everything he was capable of doing. He had defended the misunderstood teen for as long as he could remember. It felt like John's responsibility to protect this person from harm and slander when they couldn't protect themselves.

But John wouldn't be kept in the shadows. Not for one second, not even for Sherlock Bloody Holmes. If Sherlock was willing to start something with him, no matter how slow they go with each milestone. John wanted the curly-haired git to know that John was the type of person who wasn't afraid to show off his partner. He wouldn't go as far as excessive PDA or the typical parading of a new fling. But John wants people to know that Sherlock is spoken for and that if they have a problem, they could talk to him about it.

So, to show Sherlock how much he needed John in his life, John made a fist over the head of Sherlock's cock. That alone made Sherlock gasp. Hearing Sherlock sound so blissful, so free encourage John to take it a step further.

As an experiment, he twisted his wrist as if he were unscrewing a bottle cap. Sherlock's head tipped further back, and scrunched his eyes incredibly tight. John saw it as a sign of approval and continued the new technique for a while longer. When John saw that Sherlock was close to tears, he returned to stroking Sherlock's sensitive prick to prolong the orgasm.

The neat strokes John hoped to keep turned into frantic jerks as the clock began to wind down. Nevertheless, the meaning encompassed in every tug remained the same as from the beginning of the hidden wank.

A handful of minutes remained before the bell was due to ring. Sherlock doubted there was enough time to reach orgasm and tidy up before class was let out. The heat was coiling into a tense knot being pulled tighter and tighter in the pit of his stomach but it was ready to break just yet.

A bone-shattering quiver wracked his body when John released his cock and took Sherlock's balls into his hands. John fondled the balls in playfully, and expertly he should add. The knot was continued to be pulled tight with every caress, with every brush of John's warm fingers on his tender skin.

Sherlock didn't want the moment to end, but that would mean the risk of getting caught by twenty eight other students. So, he decided he would let go and give into his bodily functions. John had moved on to pay attention to Sherlock's foreskin, tugging down gently and pulling it over the shiny head. Sherlock leaned over and whispered into John's ear, "I'm close. Please, John, let me come."

John was surprised Sherlock had begged without John asking him to, so of course he was happy to indulge the beautiful creature besides him. He flattened his palm on the slit of Sherlock's prick and used the wet pre-come to rub against the tip.

What a beautiful sight it was to see Sherlock writhing in his seat as the tension built up inside him, as he searched for release. Sherlock finally got his release when the heated knot broke with a snap, freeing a distressing amount of tension from his body. Sherlock had surprised himself for not screaming. For not shouting at the infuriating world how miracles are impossible but John Watson was breathing next to him and very much alive.

Hot, thick spurts of come landed in John's palm. It made the clean up easier and he always carries tissues in his back pocket. (Never know when you're gonna need them) After most of the mess was cleaned up, John looked over at Sherlock who had been suspiciously quiet for some time.

The beautiful boy (inside and out, mind you) was spent, completely tired and unaware of the rest of the world. Sherlock's cock was flaccid, however, it was still sitting outside of his trousers and glistening with pre-come.

John wasn't the type of guy to leave a person post-orgasm take care of themselves. Even if it was a one night stand, he would be try attentive and caring. Chivalrous was the word he was looking for.

But this was Sherlock. The man who had made him reevaluated his sexuality. How could John possibly make Sherlock feel as if this had all been a joke? A one off? That had gotten the fun he wanted and was ready to cast Sherlock's feelings aside

John took another tissue from his pocket and wiped away as much of the sticky come he could from his partner's prick. He tucked Sherlock back into his pants and closed the zip of his trousers. Sherlock must've truly been in orgasmic bliss because he had not once regarded John once since his climax. He hasn't even moved yet.

The clock on the wall said it they had less than a minute before history class was over and John desperately wanted to talk to the brunet. _Well,_ reasoned John. Since it started with notes, _why not continue writing with notes._

He quickly scribbled on a half sheet of paper what he wanted to say to Sherlock for quite some time. Just to be sure, he left the note under Sherlock's palm, so the boy had no excuse not to read it.

The bell rang and John waited around to see if Sherlock would come to his senses and speak to John. But Sherlock was still building a room for John in his mind palace. John's next class was on the other side of campus and he didn't like being late, so he looked around the class to see if anyone was watching them before he gave Sherlock's hand a quick kiss. He collected his text books and scuttled out of the class.

Sherlock, however, had seen John exit, he just hadn't said anything. Once he felt the whisper of a kiss on his hand, his brain had snapped back into reality and he began to see things with a new, slightly less cynical perspective.

He noticed there was a piece of paper under his hand. The only feasible explanation as to who it was from lead to John, and with no questions asked, Sherlock opened the notebook paper.

**_I'm sorry I couldn't have said this myself after what we did but I didn't want to disturb you. You look really adorable when you're tired, and especially when it's me who made you relaxed. I just wanted to tell you that for me, I hoped this wouldn't be a one time thing. I've been a coward for months, trying to get the courage to ask you out to dinner. I guess today we skipped a couple steps, but it was spectacular and I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. I just ask you to let me treat you to dinner, nothing fancy, Chinese sounds good to me. If this was just a one off for you, I completely understand and I'll never bother you again. But if you do wanna eat some Chinese with me (it doesn't have to be Chinese it could be anything you like. I hope I don't sound to forward)...my number's down below. I'm really hoping you'll call. -JW_ **

A hand job in history class.

Declaring of having emotional attachment and not just physical attraction.

Begging to treat him to dinner.

And even giving him the choice of choosing their dinner.

How could Sherlock not call?

He might a heartless robot but he was stupid.

Also, he was dying to show Mycroft what John Watson was capable of. Just wait till he sees the school footage of today's class. Sherlock's phone began to vibrate in his back pocket continuously. But it seemed that Mycroft already knew what his baby brother had been up to. It hadn't been school work, that's for sure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received several request for a sequel so I went ahead and wrote one. I literally have no plan for this story so if you guys like it and want me to continue just leave a comment down below. Comment/kudos encouraged. ;)

It was true. Why wouldn't it be true? Sherlock simply abhorred calling people by phone, however, this was John Watson he was about to call.

If Sherlock was going to talk to John after their surreptitious escalation of note passing, Sherlock was going to do it correctly.

After John had left the class and Sherlock had read his (adorable) confession, Sherlock tucked the slip of paper into his pocket and marched straight to his flat. He needed to process, he needed to analyze the exchange with John as a whole without the incessant stupidity buzzing around him.

Once he had stormed through the gates of Westminster Hall and blown everything out of his path to reach the door of 221B, Sherlock plopped down on the edge of his armchair, hands steepled thoughtfully beneath his chin. His eyes closed as every word, every movement between John and him flashed behind his eyelids and ignited the fire inside his body stronger than before.

Sherlock had still had no clue how he would attack the 'John situation' but he knew that ignoring John wasn't be a wise option. Dangerous amounts of adoration and excitement spread throughout Sherlock's tempered blood as he thought of John and the almost love note that sat on Sherlock's lap. Long, pale fingers smoothed the crinkly paper over his knee letting his eyes roam over the page freely.

It took Sherlock four thorough read-throughs to memorize John's careful but ridiculously nervous admission, but Sherlock had read John's prepared words a total of nine times. Sentiment, scowled Sherlock. However, his supposedly cold soul didn't hold any resentment towards John for making him indulge in trivial human feelings.

The overflow of unsettling feelings had slowly calmed within Sherlock making room for the rational, and analytical side of himself available and this was something he was comfortable with.

The new perspective Sherlock began to study John from allowed Sherlock to detach himself from any feelings he might have for John to efficiently search for ill intentions on John's part.

Sherlock thought back to the beginning of their encounter and fast forwarded until John had left his side (x-rated moments included). Never once did John show any interest in anything apart from Sherlock and his personality. John didn't even seem interested in getting Sherlock to do his work.

On the contrary, John begged _Sherlock_ to accept his offer and go on a date with him. John even admitted to being attached to Sherlock long before their first physical encounter. So, either John is an exceptional actor or Sherlock had actually found a suitable contender to form a partnership with.

Chinese it was.

Now all he had to do was call John...

  
X

  
Sherlock paced throughout his flat as the phone rang in his hand. Who knew that calling could be so nerve-racking yet tedious at the same time?

The call went through and Sherlock heard soft puffs of breath from the other side of the line. It went beyond his control the moment the words left his mouth, "Chinese would be preferable but I would prefer to chose the location. I would hate to get food poising from subpar Kung Pao chicken."

Sherlock heard a loud gasping sound from the phone speaker followed by a muffled --dare he say squeal. "Sherlock? Is it you?" The question was ridiculous enough for Sherlock to answer with actual syllables so Sherlock used a hum as a sufficient answer. "You actually called me. I didn't think you would call. Oh god..."

"Of course I called. What kind of question is that? Am I not talking to you over the phone? More importantly, am I not following your explicit instructions by calling you to arrange an outing?" huffed Sherlock. He should've sounded annoyed but there was unusual tenderness to his voice.

"I'm sorry, I just. I can't believe you called. I'm, it's --again, sorry." John paused probably holding in an exhale of disbelief. "Sherlock, wait. You do know the date was optional, right? I wasn't trying to force you into call me, I said that in the note if I remember correctly." said John with a hint of underlined panic to his voice.

Sherlock sighed, "Settle down, John don't lose any more braincells than you already have. You might need them one day." He wanted to slap himself in the face. Great, Sherlock, condescending is exactly how you should calm down the guy you're asking out. But then John snorted amusedly so Sherlock continued. "I'm not the type of man who could be pressured into social outings for any reason besides selfish reasons and I assure you that your company at the dinner table is a very selfish reason. Sentiment and I have never gotten along, however, we find ourself making an exception for you."

"Okay, good. That's, um, good. Selfish is good, okay. I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear the fist part about the braincells and try to find the compliment that's hidden in there somewhere." John sounded more relaxed than before. Sherlock had half a mind to pat himself on the back for finally fixing the situation instead of burying himself deeper. "So. Chinese, huh?"

"Yes, John, Chinese. I know this place that's open until three in the morning. Also, the chance of getting food poising is only thirteen percent compared to the forty-seven percent of the other establishments near the campus." The words had rushed out of Sherlock's mouth before he had realized what he said, however, Sherlock had no regrets. He was genuinely excited for his evening with John Watson and if John was serious about continuing a relationship between them then he needed to know the real sides of Sherlock.

"Well isn't that a nice little fact to have in mind when ordering take away." It sounded like John was speaking to himself so Sherlock remained quiet until John began to speak again. "Sherlock, I really couldn't care less where we go out to eat but as long as you're next to me that's all that matters. Actually, that's all I care about. Hell, we could be sitting under a bridge with a picnic basket and you won't hear me saying anything. So, if you wanna go to a thirteen percent chance of food posing Chinese restaurant, by all means."

Sherlock froze, his blue eyes widen as he stared into the open space before him, "You mean that, don't you? You actually want to spend time with me? I didn't put you off with the food poising? I don't understand." He braced himself for John's answer. This was usually when the other person would stop fooling around and tear Sherlock apart.

"Sherlock, of course I want to spend time with you. Actually, I think I want to spend too much time with you." John struggled to speak now. "I'm a big boy, I know what I'm getting myself into and when I say that knowing which restaurant will get me out of class for a week is a good thing then you'll have to believe me. I wouldn't be asking you to start something with me if I couldn't bother to accept your moment to showoff or be the the person to bring you back down. I like you for who you are, all of you and I-I understand if you need some more time to think about me --the date, Chinese food. I don't want to rush you so when you actually feel ready, call me at any time, please. Or even if it's not to go out, still call me. I like to hear your voice, Sherlock. Like I said, even though you can be a bit of a prat sometimes, I can't help but think you're brilliant."

The line went quiet but the soft ebb and flow of their breathing could still be heard at the end of each receiver. It was Sherlock who broke the silence after the surge of complete adoration bubbled in his veins. "I'll, I'll stop by Dartmoor Hall around eight. Um, to pick you up that is, east entrance. That's where the medical students stay, no? Wear long sleeves since the temperature is supposed to drop, I would hate to see you get sick."

"You mean-- we're going. The date. You're taking _me_  on the date. Sherlock it's supposed to be the other way around." John had no idea (although he claimed he did) what he had gotten himself into. Sherlock was after all a dangerous hurricane but there John was braving the storm with such ease.

"Oh. And forget about bringing your wallet. The owners owe me a favor so the meal's on me. But next time you'll be paying for sure. Do you have to be back by a--" Sherlock was delighted. He had never been so happy with himself and especially when it was because he had a beautiful John Watson in his life.

"Next time? We haven't even gone out a first time. How can you be so sure you'll like me the first time around? Just because I like you doesn't mean you have to like me back." whispered John on the brink of fainting or crying, both were the same in Sherlock's eyes, unnecessary melodramatics.

"Please, John. You clearly don't know me as well as you say you do. I don't spend my time --which is very valuable, mind you-- on anything of insignificance, on anything that isn't less than spectacular. You, John. You are the definition of interesting, kind, and good. It wasn't hard for me to come to the conclusion and I've chosen you. So, of course there will be a next time."   
"Yes, I understand. That was, um, nice what you said, Sherlock, really sweet." John was trying his hardest to maintain his composure but the increasing speed of breath on the other side on the line said otherwise. "So, dinner at eight? Tonight, yeah?"

"I'm looking forward to seeing you, John Watson. You made one hell of a first impression. I can't possibly imagine how you're going to top that on our date but I'll be waiting for a follow up."

Sherlock disconnected the call with a satisfied smile on his face. He could picture the glowing crimson blush on John's face. That had been the first John related piece of information Sherlock noticed that made it's way into his mind palace without sorting. Surprisingly, there was a room already starting to crowd of memories similar to dusty pink color of John's blush to the calluses of his fingers.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I was originally going to write smut in this chapter but then I thought I would leave it up to you guys. So, if you want to know how the chapter would end let me know down in the comments and again thank you so much for reading something I never thought would get this far. Enjoy xx

_I'm doing surprisingly okay with John, and our date hasn't been a total flop so far. I'll need to collect more data from John's perspective though,_ thought Sherlock. He had no doubts he would make a hellish date. In his defense, he wasn't exactly --let's say, familiar with the guidelines of dating or socialization in general.

People have said that sentiment, compassion, basically all things human are Sherlock's Achille's heel, it was inevitable that his destruction would be brought on by interaction of the lesser species --humans.

Besides, Sherlock didn't go through all the trouble of classifying himself of a high functioning sociopath for nothing. Impersonating someone else, their emotions, the lying that was involved was something Sherlock had mastered over the years. But when he was around John, he had sworn to stay true to his sociopathic tendencies and go through the motions of what would be another day for Sherlock and his messy relationship with sentiment. It wouldn't be fair to John if he pretended to be feeling, sentient when in reality, he couldn't care less if the little girl on the street scraped her knee. That's why people have paid thousands of dollars to mosey on through through their medical degree only to find out the most exciting part of their day was a screaming toddler with a grazed knee.

Anyway, in Sherlock's defense, so far, he's managed to successfully (if you want to call it that) pick up John from the east entrance of Dartmoor Hall's, it was exactly eight when he arrived, mind you. Would prompt behavior accredit him points with John and this dating lark. Damn it all to hell, but Sherlock wanted to impress John so badly he would do anything on heaven and Earth for the shorter boy.

Well... It may have been true that he countered John's polite hello with a distant hum before demandingly --he preferred to use the term purposefully, sounds more accurate-- snatching onto the sleeve of John's second hand, pastel jumper taking over the reigns for the night. With feline fluidity, Sherlock lead John through seedy alleyways and busy streets while glaring at anyone who dared to even look at his date.

John, the boy is a saint, chuckled lowly at Sherlock and all of his steadfast eccentricities. Ever since he'd shown his first signs of fascination and interest towards Sherlock and his growing repute in offense, John had grown to accept the idiotic genius and the fact he was anything but ordinary. Evermore so, the word ordinary was sin to Sherlock, it didn't exists in his ridiculously large vocabulary where _boustrophedon_ has a home but not _ordinary_. Therefore, John readied himself accordingly for anything Sherlock was capable of throwing his way. Hell would freeze over before John Watson would change his mind about Sherlock after months of endless pinning, embarrassing trips to the shops for tissues and lotion --at the same time, and having to keep his thoughts clean in three of his classes after Sherlock waltzed in all with his blazing glory. He would seriously consider moving across the country if things with Sherlock fell through just because he couldn't handle Sherlock and the wonderful tornado that his brain was.

John thinks he has a pretty good idea why Sherlock gets such an incredible thrill from deducing people. Sherlock enjoys --correction, _loves_ being in control. He loves having the spotlight pointed directly at him so everyone would have to pay attention to him and only him. Another reason Sherlock strayed from the ordinary and John couldn't love this about Sherlock any more than he already does. He found it quite adorable when he saw Sherlock preen like a peacock whenever John said he was _brilliant_ or _unbelievable_ because Sherlock is usually insecure with himself.

John had no problem giving Sherlock just that, attention. John's thoughts basically revolved around Sherlock anyway so what the hell, he just completely gave into Sherlock's magnetism. If he wasn't studying for an exam then John would automatically start to tear apart one of Sherlock's deductions and try to see how the skinny git had figured it out. It wasn't healthy behavior and John knew this but he couldn't care one bit.

One thing that made John mad was the fact Sherlock never gets the recognition he deserves for his extraordinary brilliance. Sherlock honestly deserved to hear compliments from people who weren't John, to hear praises, or several looks of pure astonishment would suffice because everything Sherlock did was simply breathtaking. Even though his words were scathing and harsh, they were still incredible to hear.

Whenever John saw Sherlock doing something whether it was the constant surreptitious glances he sent from afar, or the interested gazes from close up, John entered a love frenzied fever every time. Yet that's what fascinated John, although he'd been witness to several of Sherlock's deductions, he still hasn't been --and probably won't be now-- a target for Sherlock to shoot his poisonous words at whenever he fancied.

John knew for a fact that even if Sherlock did take a stab at him and the deduction were exactly what he'd imagine them to be --Harry and her best friend Heineken or the piling bills. He shouldn't -- he wouldn't result to petty threats or something as childish as bullying like everyone else did as they tried to build back their reputation.

John was ready to deal with the ensuing weariness of hearing his life read out and shared to others like yesterday's paper. But that's pretty much it, that was probably the most impact it would have on his life because truth be told he wasn't the most scandalous of students on campus. No illicit love affairs with teachers or doubling as the head co-ordinator to a secret underground student market that sells answers to the next exams. Nothing ever happened to him, so what would Sherlock find worthy enough to share with the other students. All Sherlock seemed to care about was turning peoples lives against them.

That could be why Sherlock has spared him from the legendary slaughter of reputation a good percentage of Bart's have already been subjected to. Weirdly, John felt as if he had nothing to fear. Whatever came out from Sherlock's mouth was something he'd have to learn how to accept regardless. John wanted Sherlock to feel accepted, and cared for by John. Including the times the curly haired genius acted like a self-entitled child trapped in a man's body.

John, lost in his head the whole walk, blanched the second Sherlock paused at the store front of an average Chinese restaurant. John had seen the awning several times on his way to the tube yet he'd never actually thought to pay any attention to the store itself. Sherlock ran his long, pale fingers through dark, tousled curls before yanking the door open and breezing straight into the restaurant essentially deserting John on the concrete like a blundering clod.

John could only chuckle and roll his eyes at Sherlock, the genius who was inexperienced with human courtesies. John reached for the door handle to catch up to his lovely date when the door opened by itself. On the other side was the adonis himself with a somewhat sheepish look.

"Apologies, John. It hadn't been my intention to leave you outside like this, it was a slight oversight on my behalf which I can assure you --" rushed Sherlock abashedly. The yellowish glow from the street lamps entwined with the pale beams of moonlight. They danced upon the sharp angles of Sherlock's face that were darkened by a rare, crimson blush.

"Don't be sorry Sherlock. Really, it's okay. It's all okay." John gave Sherlock an easy smile to prove he wasn't the least bit bothered. "Now. Let's get some food, shall we? I'm starving."

This time around, Sherlock kept the door opened for John and together, they searched for a table for two near the back. Sherlock thought he owned John an explanation for the secluded seating on a first date but needs must.

Although, the food they served might be somewhat decent it didn't extended to the customer service. There was a reason the rumor mill ran on late night trysts no one seemed to be witness of. The staff had a spot of trouble with their discretion if it came down to a slipped tenner, their mouths magically spilled the names of the sauciest affairs taking place on campus. Sherlock wouldn't dare subject John to the gossip piranhas now that he's decided to date a male after having an impressive track record with girls. He wouldn't be able to live knowing he could've possibly made John Watson's life harder than it should be.

Luckily for them, the restaurant was lacking it's usual amount of customers for a late Friday night so there was only a handful of students loitering about. Although the restaurant was littered with insipid fools, (a.k.a, not-Johns) Sherlock was ameliorated by their stupidity and inability to protect their privacy.

Sherlock had chosen a table he felt (somewhat) satisfied with and plopped into his chair with astonishing grace. John, however, lingered behind his chair feeling unsure what to do next. He wanted to impress Sherlock with all of his heart but he'd just learned to accept the fact he could never measure up to those long, lean limbs and the enigmatic billowing coat. Nevertheless, he wasn't going to let a case of the nerves interfere with Sherlock Holmes, the man who had chosen John from the sea of boring people and said he was different, said he was special.

John took a deep breath and swallowed the irrational fear that had been building up at the back of his throat. The chair make a scraping sound as it was slowly and painstakingly so, pulled out from underneath the table; John winced.

He shyly settled down on his chair, straight away refusing to meet Sherlock's quick silver eyes. John feared Sherlock would begin to pick him apart piece by piece and realize that the John Watson he talked with in class isn't the same John Watson sitting in front of him.

John's eyes, while directed towards the table, were glazed over with doubt. Strangely enough, he'd managed to notice Sherlock had set the table with silverware and menus without having gotten up. In fact, Sherlock, sitting with his back towards the door, was completely ignoring his menu card. Instead, he had his hands steepled under his chin and settled a thoughtful, rigid stare onto John.

An abashed grin bowed gingerly on John's lips, he tired to hide the shameful smile before Sherlock noticed by using one of the the laminate menus on the table. The menu thankfully covered not only his mouth but also his panicked eyes leaving Sherlock with a view of his blond fringe and quivering fingertips.

John was in the red with his overall health and he needed to accomplish a herculean task, he needed to attempt to lower his blood pressure. Not only to spare his heart from spontaneous combustion, however, to also soothe himself enough to actually read over the menu and chose something to bloody eat because over the last two minutes he's managed to go over the appetizers options ten times. (And of course he wasn't planning on crossing out any plates that used garlic/onions because that would be very presumptuous of him)

John could feel the pressure of his erratic heart beat against his eardrum. Now with clammy hands, his grip became somewhat of a tragic accident with the constant slip and slide of fingers on the glossy menu. There came a point when the menu reached a level of non-compliancy, he decided failure would be a softer blow to his ego than to keep trying. John, followed up his failure with a well-worded prayer to every god, religion, and even superhero (it's good to have all of his bases covered) he knew of. He fervently prayed that his stupidity not be the undoing of the only good thing to have happen to him in the last few years.

Sherlock, however much he may deny it, shivered delightfully at the thought of an anxious John, specifically in his presence. John was being absurd if he felt it was necessary to hide his gorgeous face as to not embarrass himself. Sherlock hated to say it but John was being tedious spending all of this time believing his shy, flustered smiles were upsetting Sherlock. Quite the opposite, Sherlock would be having none of the hiding this evening.

Sherlock, in all honesty, wanted to see each and every emotion possible appear on John's face. He wanted to see the difference between what made John blush from arousal and or from personal insecurities. He wanted to know to count the different ways John smiled, and especially when they were directed to him. He wanted to know how many conversations it took John to finally get bored with Sherlock talking about the chemical properties of sulfuric acid so he could learn when to stop talking about something to John. He could never annoy John because John was a gift, an anomaly from the universe that had been handed to him so he needed to learn what were John's boundaries. It was vital information if he was going to keep John by his side like the selfish creature he was. He needed to know how much John was willing to forgive and what was 'a bit not good' so John would never leave his side. He needed to know if John would even be patient and kind enough to forgive him for the early morning break-ins demanding his attention, to forgive him for the days of silence and stroppy attitude. He needed to know everything about John. How else was he to know if John really loved him?

Sherlock wanted --no, needed this information for the ever expanding John Watson room he was keeping in his mind palace. And if he couldn't keep John (insert his unforgettable arrogance), at least he wanted to have the memories of his time together with John, he wanted to remember the incredible exception he'd found in John Watson. Who for one, was the only person to take the time to acknowledge his quirks and differences and embrace them.

Using a long, pale finger, Sherlock lowered the menu from John's face and dramatically tutted. "Come now, don't be shy. I need to see you, let me see you, John Watson." Sherlock was a sinful sight with his devilish grin watching the menu drop from John's face to lay on the faux wood tabletop. " _That's_ better. It's not fair to have such a pretty face like your's hidden behind a menu, now is it?"

Devoid all words, John stammered not sure how to respond to a flirting Sherlock until he ultimately decided to move onto more neutral grounds. "You've been here before, yeah? Anything you recommend? I mean everything sounds so good and it's kind of hard to just pick one thing but--" He took a deep breath, damn it, humiliation did wonders to one's self-conscious. "Actually, I thought about sharing a plate of the crispy spring rolls, those sound good. Then for me, the chicken in orange sauce sounds good but so does the special fried rice. I thinking about ordering both, you?"

It was refreshing for Sherlock to see another man being given the opportunity to boast and brag like the pretentious pricks they are only caring about their appearance. However, John was different, he practically screamed discomfort, begging Sherlock to change the subject. _A mental note to be filed away in memory banks, mind palace subdivision folder: John Watson; John is irrationally humble even during times of inconvenience. Nevertheless, I absolutely adore that about him, and yes, even considering the fact it causes me extreme annoyance._

"Mmm" hummed Sherlock, raising an eyebrow with piqued attention. "I would suggest ordering the duck spring rolls, but everything else sounds fantastic, John." With such anticipated desiree, Sherlock bathed in the warm glow of John's precious blush. Adding beautiful coloring to the canvas of John's golden freckled skin with shades of scandalous red.

Before he'd met John, if asked, Sherlock would've said his mission in life was to rid the world of stupidity, living for eternity with his name on the cover of books and dissertations. Now, however, he was convinced someone put him on this planet to make John Watson feel cared for, to make John smile without reservations, without regrets. Then, perhaps, Sherlock would learn that caring doesn't have to be a disadvantage, just as long as John is by his side, everything would be alright.

"Yeah, thanks." answered John curiously taking a glancing at Sherlock's untouched menu. With a face of confusion. "Aren't you going to order anything? I'm not going to eat all by myself, am I? Sherlock, don't even think about it, you are eating and that's final."

And the academy award goes to Sherlock Holmes for most theatrically outstanding sigh in the history of man. "Of course I'm going to order, John. I hardly have the need to look at the menu, I and a frequent customer here and the employees tend to have a general idea of what I'll order seeing as there are only a handful of dishes that are worth wasting the time and energy to digest" John looked amused yet mildly unsatisfied with Sherlock's answer and, god did it worry Sherlock. And not for the reasons you would think. How did John know about his unhealthy relationship with food and why did he care if his body wasn't benefiting from calories? "As for actually eating the food, that's another question I do not wish to go into."

In a forceful but caring whisper, John chided, "You have to eat Sherlock, as I said, no discussion. I'm not going to let you waste away because you decided to be a thick, pomp--"

"Ah. Soo Lin, what a surprise. I haven't seen you in class since Professor Hammond took leave. Would it have anything to do with your growing infatuation with him?" Sherlock signaled at the girl that was now walking towards them, her scowl looked excessive and her annoyances oozed into the surrounding air. While one of her hands were busy squeezing the life out of her notepad, the a pencil in her other hand was ready to snap. A desperate appetite for murder circled around Soo Lin, as she flicked the slick, black hair pony tail from her shoulder with a outraged humph. Her white apron was stained with small splotches of grease, and many different types of sauces which by the looks of it, couldn't be too easy to clean off. John didn't want to begin to imagine how easy Soo Lin would be able to clean off Sherlock's blood from her apron but it was too late, John had already pictured the soiled apron free from damning evidence.

Admittedly, this girl, Soo Lin was beautiful, gorgeous even. John had to admit he embarrassingly contemplated the option of shoving her skinny arse into a locked closet as he screamed at the top of his lungs that Sherlock belonged to him. John had won Sherlock over fair and square and there was no way in hell anyone was going to upstage him at this point.

John was simmering away in a mixture of jealously and fury, and funny enough, if he were asked about his feelings, he would have denied his jealousy left to right, up and down. He would force himself to keep everything under wraps for the rest of his life, or until Sherlock noticed, --if he noticed. Whichever came first but John really hoped it would be the latter the pressure was already killing him inside.

"What do you want, Freak." huffed Soo Lin sounding unbelievably displeased. "I'd hoped to get an easy shift tonight but I now I have to put up with your accusations and shit. Professor Hammond has nothing to do with my absence in class." said Soo Lin through her teeth, however, the twitching of her eyes said otherwise. "So, what's it going to be, faggot? And be quick about it, you know how I hate to hear you talk."

Sherlock's mouth broke into a cheshire grin before he looked back at John. "John, this is Soo Lin Yao whose currently working on her history major at our university. She works here some nights to pay off her rent which is unnecessary if you ask me as she spends most of her nights sleeping in other men's beds." Soo Lin muttered something along the lines of 'queer faggot' and 'stalker.' John had wanted to immediately dislike her from the beginning but he had no reason too, now however, he could hate her at his hearts content. "Soo Lin, this is John. He's a pre-med student at Bart's, but tonight he's my date. So if you would be so kind as to take our orders you could disappear for the rest of the evening. I'm sure we would both enjoy that."

John and the lousy waitress, Soo Lin's chins dropped simultaneously at Sherlock's unusual divulgence of his own personal affairs. Somewhere in that silly little brain of his, John knew he and Sherlock were here on a proper date, well as far as he knew because it had been Sherlock who'd asked him out. But frankly he hadn't expected Sherlock to go around flaunting John as his date in early days. John wasn't sure how he felt about that because it meant either Sherlock was entirely certain of his feelings and affections for John, or something there was something fishy going on. Sherlock introduced John, dating status and all, with a level of pomposity only Sherlock Holmes can manage, with pride, and upmost affection. If it were anyone else, people would've thought he was bragging about a new car or the likes, not a date with a square like John. But this was Sherlock and Soo Lin had no idea how to wrap her head around the information she'd been given, and John embarrassingly enough, was struggling through some mild confusion as well.

"He's your...date?" asked the weary, scandalized Soo Lin. "You mean your not paying him to help on one of your cases, or to listen to you talk for hours? Sherlock, you know what happened last time you decided to bring in one of your filthy pets as an experiment. How many times do we have to call Scotland Yard for you to listen with those bloody ears on your head?" said she undoubtly furious. At what?- John had no clue because as of now it seemed it went beyond the mischief of Sherlock and his homeless network and delved into something deeper, more personal. Perhaps she was unconvinced anyone sane, normal, nice like John would waste their time and date Sherlock Holmes when no one was pinning after her, Soo Lin was pretty, she was smart, and above all normal unlike Sherlock and it was he who got a date like John. Above all, the two things Soo Lin couldn't process was a) John wasn't sitting at the table for any type of compensation and b) it was under mutual consent and enjoyment.

"Of course I'm his date." spoke John for the first time since they'd arrived at the restaurant. Anger was blowing out of his ears upon hearing Soo Lin and the gall she had to mock his precious date in front of him. No one made fun of Sherlock, much less in his presence, and left without a scratch. "Why would you even ask that? Sherlock's a great guy, incredible even, once you get to know him. And he's brilliant at everything he does but everyone is too blind with their jealousy to see that for themselves. Although it may be a shame no one else stuck around long enough to see how truly unbelievable he can be at times, it all worked out in the end believe it or not because now I have the honor of calling Sherlock mine and that is something I will never regret.

Tense silence settled around the three undergrads in the wake of John's spontaneous --albeit frenzied-- rant. Soo Lin had a frown on her face, her eyes showed slight embarrassment. It was clear Soo Lin wasn't comfortable with being called out by someone, let alone anyone on Sherlock's side for once.

Sherlock on the other hand looked radiant, fresh, smiling brighter than the sun and every other star in the universe combined. Small creases formed at the corner of his pale blue eyes and the most adorable dimples indented themselves onto his cheek. John smiled warmly seeing that the few seconds of lost temper hadn't cost him his dream date but had won another part of Sherlock over.

"Now, I would like to order, if you don't mind." said John clearing his throat with dubious professionalism. He dictated to Soo Lin what he had in mind from earlier, Sherlock followed with his order but John had already tuned out to his surroundings because when he looked around, Soo Lin had disappeared leaving only him and Sherlock in their respective corner.

John, like the coward he was, looked at everything and everywhere except at the seductive adonis that incredibly wanted to be seen with him, he couldn't even look at Sherlock. John knew that some part of his subconscious wanted to avoid the look on Sherlock's face when he realized that he didn't want a Prince Charming to come bursting through the doors every time he seemed to be in trouble and that had been exactly what John had done. John had spoken for Sherlock and he honestly couldn't blame him if he accused John of trying to preserve his virtue. Sherlock was the type of person who didn't need to be rescued from pathetic waitresses in a two star Chinese restaurant. He nervously drummed his fingers on the table staring outside the window just past Sherlock's left shoulder.

Meanwhile, Sherlock fiddled his fingers on the tabletop for a short while before he subduedly placed his palm near one of John's hand. Neither of them have spoken since Soo Lin's departure and even though the silence would've been worrying in any other case, this was John so Sherlock wasn't the least bit worried. Not even in the slightest did he question if John's opinion of him had swayed in the last twenty minutes (yes, he was counting both the door incident and Soo Lin).

Sherlock was desperately hanging onto the ridiculous idea that John wouldn't let something as insignificant as a closed door or awkward run-in ruin the beginning of what could be a beautiful relationship. Actually, he hope John would consider how long he'd been waiting for Sherlock to notice him so he was forced to stay by his side. Regardless of how selfish that sounded it was true, John had personally told him that he'd almost driven himself crazy trying to get Sherlock to notice him so here was Sherlock hoping for the best. Nevertheless, Sherlock thought he would try to do something to show John everything was okay.

John noticed the weird placement of Sherlock's hand and it slowly dawned on him what Sherlock could be insinuating. _What? So, let me get this right. Sherlock isn't mad at me, not even slightly disgusted. Huh?_ gasped John. He hesitantly stopped tapping his fingers and looked up at Sherlock through his golden lashes.

Piercing steel blue eyes had already been looking back at John adoringly. John flit his eyes down to the milky palm in front of him then back up to Sherlock's face --his way of asking for permission if you may. Sherlock didn't skip a beat, nodding once as he determinedly tried to prepare himself for the joining of their hands (keyword: tried). He couldn't help the bubbling anticipation in his stomach when he pictured the fusion of the golden sun reaching out to the hidden moon, of the unadulterated heat to be extinguished by the wintery moon.

John inched his fingers towards Sherlock's palm's, his breathing paused, his heart was screaming doing summersaults and leaps through the air centimeter he got closer to the exposed palm. Sherlock held back a moan when he felt John's warm fingertips touch his skin. The neediness swarming his lower stomach intensified when he felt the familiar weight of John's hand triggered the memory of when it had been wrapped around his pulsing cock not so long ago. His eyes dilated and widened when he thought of the contrast of the John he'd met in the class room, so forward and seductive and then thought of the John sitting before him. Reasonably sensible, and shy, strong, but nevertheless, he was still brazenly high on John.

It seemed John had gotten past whatever fears he'd had and wrapped his thumb onto the back of Sherlock's hand. In turn, Sherlock hooked his thumb over the top of John's knuckles to press soft circles on golden skin.

John sighed beyond relief, he still couldn't believe Sherlock hadn't been offended and he really, truly couldn't lose Sherlock now that he's had a taste of what his life could look like with the infuriating genius.

The two of them spent what could've been an eternity staring at their joint hands and reveling at the shared warmth, the striking contrast. Sherlock's long, elegant fingers intertwined with John's shorter, stubbier fingers and the harmonious song of hearts beating along to the rhythm of content, fluttering in unison, thumping them into oblivion.

Soo Lin arrived, she rudely snapped them out of their intimate reverie when she placed a plate of duck spring rolls just a bit too harshly to be accidental. Oh the mistake she had made. Sherlock (tenderly) tightened his grip on John and stared murderously at the haughty waitress.

His harrowing verdigris eyes were enough to paralyze Soo Lin, her eyes widened with fear and her spine stiffened. Just for kicks, at least that's how John saw it as, Sherlock cleared his throat emitting a dark, menacing rumble deep within his chest.

Soo Lin scuttled away with her head cast down after Sherlock flipped on his Alpha male alias. John felt thrilled, honored, euphoric even that Sherlock thought him worthy enough to protect. My how the tables have turned John thought comically, because it was John earlier defending Sherlock's honer. Now, however, Soo Lin had shown them disrespect and intrusion so Sherlock reacted in kind. And John would be the first to admit how very sexy it is to watch his diehard crush safeguard his honor. Swoon worthy for sure.

Even after the pest Soo Lin made of herself, Sherlock refused to let go of his hand. On the many other dates John has been on, when the waiter comes to service them, they usually come to a mutual understanding to stop whatever ministrations they were doing. Whether it were hand holding or sharing a good laugh, John didn't see the need to parade his dates around as if they were his objects to display.

Not only did he suffer from the hateful disease of incompatibility, but John deep down always felt he was never with the right person on any date he went on. There was always a niggling doubt in the back of his head that screamed out to him what terrible mistake he was making choosing his next date. But with Sherlock there was no question how those gangly arms and bitting deductions were anything but right for John. Oh dear, was it just him or was it getting hot in here?

The plate of spring rolls sat anticlimactically on the center of the table. Any hunger John could've possibly had had dissipated with the swarming of mutant wasps in his stomach. Thank god Sherlock seemed to be on the same page as John, continually eyeing the greasy rolls as if they had personally offended him. Since Sherlock never did anything by halves, he wrinkled his nose and took hold of a plastic fork with his other hand pointedly rearranging the plated food.

John knew what bad signs to look out for in Sherlock, so when he saw the stir-crazy genius continue to poke the rolls using the metal (danger!) tines of the metal (again, danger!) fork to pull it apart. John knew he had to do something, and fast.

"What would you say if we just pay for the duck rolls then head back to your dorm? I'm not really in the mood for Chinese anyways." said John in a tone of nonchalance, as if he wasn't aware of Soo Lin's massive downpour on their parade. "I mean, if that's okay with you."

"That would be great John, thank you." Sherlock sighed haggardly, yet a coquettish smile steadily blossomed on his lips. Sherlock propped his chin on his bent arm, both eyebrows raising holy terror."But John, if it's not Chinese, then what pray tell, are you in the mood for?"

There were many directions their conversations could go in, but John knew exactly what he was going to say. "I'm craving something sweet but salty, so I was hoping you'd have something to eat at your flat. Think you've anything like that?"

"I believe I've just the thing." Sherlock radiated arousal with his wolfish smile. He stood on his feet in one fluid movement, his great coat billowed behind him as he walked to the front counter wallet in hand. "This way John, we have a flat to get to."

John made a hasty retreat to meet Sherlock by the door leaving the half empty drinks next to the oxidized cutlery on the table. By the time he reached Sherlock, there was a angelic twinkle in the boy's oceanic eyes, John had a hard time finding his breath.

John felt like the worlds greatest idiot because here was Sherlock, a sex god all by himself. And he was nothing but a dull, ordinary uni student. He hung his shoulders in embarrassment making his arms fall limp by his side. But once again, John underestimated Sherlock's ability to deduce the emotions of others despite his inability to understand them.

The boys had made it halfway down the block before their shoulders were brushing agaisnt each other. Their hands would whisper a touch every few seconds or so and Sherlock found the temptation so deliciously daring he couldn't resist the urge to shift his hand closer to John's. Sherlock felt the palpable confusion run through John as the other boy tried to process if Sherlock had done it intentionally or by accident. So, Sherlock decided to be more delicate and tenderly laced his fingers through John's, savoring the delicious warmth of another person's body heat.

John was floating, wholly suspended in ecstasy. He felt as if his feet barely touched the ground as he walked hand in hand with Sherlock down the street on route to Westminster Hall. He thought Sherlock leading him by the sleeve earlier had been mind numbing, now with the surreal feeling of Sherlock's hand weighing him down to earth. John could at least claim he was being tethered to reality much thanks to the cool fingers curled around his.

If it were for Sherlock, John and him would've ran back to Westminster hall, or preferably have taken a cab back to campus. But Sherlock was exceptionally commonsensical and knew John wouldn't allow him to act out on either idea. Not only would the excessive running tire out his gangly, out of shape body (can't risk losing any stamina, you never know what events may pop up later on. Pun intended.), the cab fare fiasco wouldn't have blown over well.

John would've undeniably demand to pay the cabbie because it was only fair considering Sherlock had paid for the food. Sherlock really doubted John's need to settle the bill with him when they were out on dates, it was ridiculous, money was such a tedious topic of discussion. For example, at the restaurant, both drinks and starter hadn't even totaled to ten quid versus the cost of a cab heading to a pretentious university. You do the math.

Sherlock would never, could never admit that fact he knew John had slight (well, a hell of a lot, actually) financial problems. And the only explanation for his attendance at Bart's was the rugby scholarship he'd worked his ass off.

It was obviously one of the very first things Sherlock had deduced about John. The first warning bell when off when he first saw John wrapping up the rest of his sandwich from lunch to take back to his dorm. Other students would've binned the leftover food without a second thought. Not to mention the fact of how likely it was that they bought another (rather expensive) serving of food for supper. But John was sensible and he knew what it was living meal to meal, so taking the to save any and every scrap of food was intuitive at this point of his life.

Since running was out of the question (these shoes are 100% Italian leather, thank you very much. Also, think about John. What would John say about running on a first date?) so was getting a cab which left walking. All of a sudden it came to Sherlock, he had no problem with the sluggish means of walking because John was more than happy to hold hands with him on the way back --all the way back.

Every second that Sherlock spent in John's company was like being in the midst of the most incredible high of his life, John was his personalized drug that catered to his every deep seeded need. Colorful euphoria swirled throughout his veins, metallic golds crashed against vibrant blues, shimmering purples bursted in his veins, splattering explosions of neon greens and collisions of burning yellows. Adrenaline pumped from his every artery, his every vein, capillaries, they were overflowing with anticipation, with the brilliance of John Watson.

Sherlock was walking on autopilot with the intent of getting John back to Westminster Hall in one un-ravished (well, not yet) piece. To be more exact, he was trying to get a certain John Watson into flat 221B by all costs.

After what seemed like an eternity, the two boys arrived at Sherlock's dormitory and of course Sherlock's plan was to slip in through the side door to go unseen. Since John wasn't exactly 'out' yet, the idea did convenience him in someways but the knowledge that he would have to live a life of secrecy made his stomach turn.

It was there that he promised himself to finally get over whatever trauma he has about admitting his bisexuality even if it was to himself to begin with. It was infuriating to not even be able to call your self bisexual because your afraid of the implications the label brings along with it. John was sick and tired of hiding from everyone that he he damn well was attracted to some men and he would eventually be okay with that.

Also, Sherlock deserved a partner that didn't question their sexuality every couple of days asking themselves if they were sure the guy they just glanced at was in a heterosexual way because that's what some guys did, right? No, Sherlock definitely didn't deserve John and his fickle brain especially since Sherlock was the master of confidence. He had practically shouted from the rooftop the fact he was his date tonight to Soo Lin without a second thought.

And funny enough, he didn't complain or deny their new relationship when he could've obviously have made Sherlock look like a liar. No one already believed in Sherlock, so why would they start now? And John had stood up for Sherlock, had defended his honor and not a single regret has come to his mind since then. Perhaps he is coming to terms with his sexuality. Or maybe it was just Sherlock. Sherlock had the ability to change everything about John Watson. Who do you think made John reconsider his interest solely for girls?

At some point during their faux break in back into the dorms, John came across a sign that read 'only authorized personnel' were to allowed this area. Of course Sherlock would chose the most dangerous route to take back to his room, thought John, and that was when his giggling began. Sherlock supposed he was rather confused as to why John was laughing. There was nothing funny going on at the moment, that was to say John wasn't laughing at him.

Then Sherlock eventually caught on, he remembered John's closeted kink for risky situations which included being caught in the most compromising of positions. Sherlock could just envision someone walking in on them, John's jeans pooled at his ankles exposing his gorgeous tan skin. Sherlock bobbing his head greedily up and down John's hard, aching cock. He would suck so fervently and desperately that whomever dared watch would die of pure jealousy. Those people could only wish someone take on the challenge to blow their partner so passionately, so brilliantly rough and to their liking. Sherlock wanted to think that he wouldn't have to wait too long before he could get his hands onto John and his provocative body. It would only be fair for Sherlock to go above and beyond for John considering the boy had brought him off in the middle of class and before he'd come out officially. Talk about a perversion for the dangerous, no?

  
If John, too lusted after the idea of being caught with his cock in someone else's mouth. Then who better than Sherlock to supply his hot and eager mouth to lavish John in all of his wishes. What a coincidence they found themselves in an empty unauthorized corridor where any resident teacher could find their way into at any moment. It was the perfect place for, I don't know, Sherlock to give John a debauching of a lifetime, right in the middle of a desolate hallway devoid of any furnisher that could've possibly hidden their illicit affairs. Oh the things Sherlock would do for, ** _to_** John were innumerable.

As John's giggles began to dissipate, Sherlock lessened his gait to stare intently at the side of the shorter boy's head. Sherlock's fixation on John had managed to catch the attention of kind cornflower blue eyes (which had been the plan all along).

John reached for Sherlock's arm, he was planning to stall on his behalf to see how far ahead Sherlock had planned their night. What he didn't know was that in Sherlock's head, their plans were absolute.

They paused mid-walk and John lead them to the closest solid object to lean upon. Sherlock let John believe he was in control of the situation and that he was going along with the notions but his insides were boiling with desire, bolts of electricity were jolting his nerve endings affecting the area around his groin the most.

Effectively, John leaned alongside the hideously striped wall and positioned Sherlock in front of him. Sherlock and his lean figure towered over John but that didn't dissuade the blond boy not for one second. His grip on Sherlock's twig-like arm was gentle and caring. Sherlock looked into John's eyes and saw concern marring the sapphire blue eyes he adored --love(?).

John was great at the whole _'I won't pressure you into speaking but don't you dare think you'll get away from me without telling me what's wrong'_ look. It was to the point Sherlock was almost certain John had actually invented the face and everyone else had modeled it after John. How funny is that.

John thought Sherlock was upset when he was actually burning inside, pleasure set his heart aflame with embers of lust and delight. Sherlock was more than ready for his turn to seduce John Watson. To have John begging and pleading to come all over Sherlock's hands, face, mouth. The more places he orgasmed on his body, the better.

Since John wasn't going to talk, then Sherlock certainly had no problems in doing so. "I hate to tell you this John, but my flatmate hasn't transferred to his new room yet. Dessert might have to be moved for now." whispered Sherlock in what he though was a mildly seductive voice, however, to John the words sounded like exploding bombs during an air raid. Just what he needed to ruin the night, to be cock blocked by his beloved.

"Oh, no yeah, I understand. That's okay, Sherlock. Another time, yeah?" John smiled tightly, his eyes lacked their usual glowing spirit. "I should be going, because of classes and all tomorrow. Anyways, tonight was great, Sherlock we should do this again sometime."

John let go of Sherlock's arm to nod once in a salute of reluctant assent. Sherlock placed his palm over John's heart before he could turn away. "You misunderstand me, John" purred Sherlock demanding John to meet his gaze. "I suggested we moved to another location but never mentioned a time. Now that I'm looking around, I find ourselves in an opportune location to take part in --shall I say, reckless matters. And would you look at that, it's almost nine, that's a time isn't it?"

John's jaw slackened, his plump, pink lips formed a tempting 'o' shape Sherlock filed away in his mind palace for future reference. It took John a few more seconds of catch up, not to mention the adorable shiver of disbelief that wracked his body before he ultimately found the right words for Sherlock. "Sherlock, we're in a private hallway. Aren't you worried we're going to be kicked out of school or something?"

"That'll make it all the more fun. Where's your sense of adventure? Where the John that made me come in the middle of history class because I know he's still in there. He gave me the best orgasm in a long time, and if that was just a hand job then I must be in big trouble once he gets me into his bed." Sherlock whispered almost pornographically leaning closer into John's face. He finished with a wink sliding closer towards the familiar smell of cinnamon and fresh wood aftershave.

"Fun, yes, I can see how that'll be fun. You're absolutely right. There would be no harm done unless someone actually sees us. Besides, like you said it's nine --good, yes, you weren't lying about that-- and it's a school night. Everyone should be getting ready for bed, so." John rambled like an adorable fool, _his_ adorable, mind you.

"So. How about that dessert now?" breathed Sherlock into John's ear, his rich, baritone an octave lower than usual. He blew lightly over the shell of John's ear and surely enough he elicited a moan from the gorgeous, pliant body beneath him.

"Please, Sherlock. Now." John gasped as Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and pressed their chest together, he had intended to unite their pounding hearts as one. For John to hear, to feel how his heart beat just for him and only for him.

Sherlock canted his head down to get a better look at John's rounded features. He looped his arms around John's neck, and placed his forehead gently onto John's.

"Please what, John? What are you trying to tell me?" Sherlock feigned his innocence surprisingly well considering the extreme amount of arousal he was in. But eventually the growing appetite for John won the better of him. He shoved John back against the wall, pinning his short, stocky body underneath a beautiful contrast of angular limbs.

Sherlock faintly ground his hips against John's making sure to only apply the lightest of pressure to the rapidly growing bulge. Regardless, that didn't stop John from feeling blinding, white, hot strikes of undiluted pleasure shoot through every one of his nuclei.

"I need you, Sherlock. Do something, anything." John panted as he greedily pushed his hips up to meet Sherlock's clothed erection. But Sherlock was particularly fond of being a tease and arched back whenever John tried to form any friction between them.

"Of course, John. I'll do anything you ask me to do." He leaned even closer to John's face leaving only centimeters between John and his mouth. The feeling of John's breath against his lips was enough incentive for Sherlock to close the painful distance between their lips.

Sherlock pressed a whisper of a kiss onto John's bottom lip hoping to only tease him further, however, he hadn't anticipated John to ram their lips together after the sugary kiss they had shared.

Yes, John was a box full of surprises.

And Sherlock enjoyed unwrapping every mystery John brought with him.

Especially those that involve deep throating his lover's cock on full display in school property.

Damn, John Watson, what are you doing to me?  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has taken a year and a half to write and I can say how sorry I am for that. However, I took that decade in between to pump out a decent chapter I hope you guys enjoy. Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me for this long and there is maybe a chapter or two to go.  
> P.S I tried to continue their sexy times but I guess I wasn't meant for the smut life...I'll leave that up to you guys though.  
> Enjoy xx

  
_Sherlock pressed a whisper of a kiss onto John's bottom lip hoping to only tease him further, however, he hadn't anticipated John to ram their lips together after the sugary kiss they had shared._

John nipped at Sherlock's bottom lips, he sucked on it hungrily before swiping his tongue into the inside of Sherlock's mouth. John competently yet innocently explored the insides of Sherlock's mouth prodding and dipping into any and every place that caught his fancy.

Sherlock should've been furious, he should've been disappointed at John's lack of experience, after all it was common knowledge on campus that Three Campus Watson was the shag of a lifetime (really?). John had a notorious following with the ladies for being kind and respectful when the time came, but when it boiled down, John was a monster in the bed room.

Sherlock could testify that there was nothing wrong with John's seduction techniques nor with his exceptional follow through. The wondrous hand job in history class after only a few notes of niceties/flirting had given Sherlock more than enough certification on the truth. However, what Sherlock hadn't done with John was kiss him, the two men hadn't properly kissed up until now. And not that it hasn't been a good kiss, a great kiss actually, Sherlock had expected John to be a dominating force were sex to be involved. He'd expected John to swoop in and take over, guide Sherlock and take both their breaths away with euphoric climax.

But here was a admittedly bold, albeit, cautious John Watson feathering Sherlock's deprived mouth with kisses. Perhaps this was how John acted with his other dates, his other female dates, but Sherlock would be having none of that. He wanted to be blinded by lust-filled frenzy, he wanted to feel as the lewd heat of his loins trickle up from the pit of his groin until it made the tips of his hair raise on point.

So, Sherlock decided that it was up to him to get the, dare he say, party started. And that is exactly what he would do, and exactly what he had been doing since they had walked into the empty corridor of Westminster dormitory. That had been his plan the second he'd pushed John onto the wall under him once the tension had begun to run sky high.

Then John had started to kiss Sherlock on his own accord and Sherlock couldn't have been more delighted. That is what Sherlock had been waiting for, for John to take initiative in the night's activities.

John enthusiastically carried on kissing Sherlock's lips with a deep seeded want, an inferno of blazing lust ached between them to be let out. And who was Sherlock to deny his precious John what he wanted. And John was being such a good, giving boy and Sherlock would be sure to reward him so.

Sherlock broke away from John lips, he knew he wouldn't last much longer if he didn't, and it would be rather embarrassing if he were to finish this early, they'd just started. And especially after Sherlock had made it clear that he would be taking over the reigns tonight.

John whined at the loss of contact, he need Sherlock's lips on his, the delectable slow burn. John craved for more touching, for more contact from Sherlock, lovely Sherlock. He tried to follow Sherlock's swollen lips with his only to find his advances go forsaken as Sherlock went straight to the smooth, golden expanses of John's neck and started to plant fevered kisses.

John shivered as he felt Sherlock's tongue lapping away at his exposed neck, or the formidable feeling of longing tearing his cells apart. John reveled in Sherlock's painfully slow movements as he slowly brushed his lips upward to the juncture of John's jaw and neck. There, Sherlock pressed open mouth kisses to the untouched skin and grinned upon hearing and, oh god, feeling John reacting, mewling below.

Sherlock laid a sweet, delicate kiss behind John's ear and watched as John continued to melt under his hands. John shivered beautifully as Sherlock continued to mouth at the side of John's neck, Sherlock was off the wall with every one of John's reactions. He was determined to squeeze as many sounds as he could from John before their time came to an end.

So, Sherlock went ahead and nibbled gently on John's earlobe, with his tongue, Sherlock licked a warm, wet path over the pinna of his ear. There, that close to John's ear, anything Sherlock said should've sounded garbled, and rushed, but John understood perfectly what Sherlock was trying to say. **_JohnJohnJohn_**. His name repeated in a breathless, lascivious voice, a litany of sin and pleasure being whispered into John's ear. It was all too much for John, actually, surreal was the correct word. He couldn't believe Sherlock had chosen John to see him in this state of vulnerability.

John tilted his head even farther to the side causing Sherlock's head to fall onto his shoulder. Sherlock bit John's skin mercilessly, the bittersweet stinging sensation jolted John much like being struck with the tip of a lightning bolt. Sherlock smoothed his tongue over the mark he'd made, John practically purred with enchantment at the feel of Sherlock soothing John's skin with his tongue.

Sherlock continued to pant hotly into the crook of John's shoulder, John couldn't decide whether it was the weight of Sherlock on him or the breathy moans that affected him more. But what he did know was how incredibly inebriated he'd become with Sherlock standing by his side. The smell of Sherlock's hair, their hips effortlessly sliding together, their eager erections hungrily searching for one another. John wasn't sure what Sherlock thought of this, of what they were doing, John wasn't even quite sure what was going through his mind. What he did know, though, was how good, how right every single second he spent with Sherlock felt.

"Gorgeous, so fucking gorgeous," Sherlock grumbled in a sinful manner, every ounce of his lewd appreciation for John came across in that pornographic voice of his.

John's mouth formed a perfectly plump 'O,' those slick, pink lips contorted with delight, obscenely moaned begging Sherlock for more in murmured suspirations. Sherlock didn't need to be told twice what to do, once was all the convincing he needed.

Sherlock brushed the tip of his nose down the column of John's throat placing shadows of kisses along the way. John arched his head head exposing more of the taut skin of his neck to Sherlock. The tenderness in Sherlock's movements acted like kindle added to an already raging fire.

However, there was a limit to Sherlock's restraint, the gentle kisses were all fine, for a while, but then the time came where more needed to be done. Sherlock needed to move quicker, wanted to show his rougher side, while John seemed to be enjoying the agonizingly slow kisses, the way his hips squirmed faster and faster was indication enough for Sherlock to step up and rise to the occasion. John wasn't going to break, he was captain of the rugby team after all, and what Sherlock had in mind was by far much more enjoyable than running laps on a muddy track.

Sherlock delicately lifted his lips from one side of John's neck only so he could greedily attach John's lips to his. John moaned in ecstasy against Sherlock's mouth, but that was a look Sherlock wanted to see for himself. Sherlock anted to see John with his eyes rolled to the back of John's head and see John's cheeks flushed dark with ravishment.

Sherlock painfully tore himself away from John's mouth, he craned his neck far enough to catch sight of the blond's upper half. The idea alone for Sherlock to see John in an unassuming jumper and nearly be a head shorter than him but be rutting and moaning like an animal in heat made Sherlock combust into uncontrollable flames.

If anyone asked Sherlock, it had been purely out of instincts the way he'd acted, but John would never ask nor would he complain about anything the mad man had done to him that night.

Sherlock cupped John's head within his hands instinctively bringing John's face closer to his. John exhaled with a sigh of relief feeling Sherlock rest his forehead atop of his, skin on sweat, slicked skin.

One fervent kiss after the other, Sherlock paused when he reached John's carotid. Sherlock rested his lips against John's thrumming artery and paused, Sherlock wanted to feel the constant, rhythmic pulse that let him know John was alive and real. Sherlock's lips lingering softly on such a defenseless area of the body, and with every second that passed, the more Sherlock realized (and gladly appreciated) that, yes, this was honestly happening. He had John trapped under his body and had freedom to kiss, lick, nibble John down from his head to toes.

Sherlock was high off of John, his body, his obscene counteractions, sure. And although most of his actions have been fueled by lust crazed hormones, but that didn't have to mean all of his thoughts had to be mindless. Ever since the start, Sherlock had been determined to maintain a sliver of his decorum, to metaphorically step back and observe, analyze, worship John inch by inch. And whilst a basement hallway might not be the best place to tare John apart stitch by stitch, it was a good time as any to use his intellect.

Not in the 'I-am-the-almighty-Sherlock-bow-down-to-me,' (although, now that he thought about it, that could be a something to come back to another day with John) and not in a 'after-reading-several-studies-and-articles.' He would use the thing that people pinned against him to bring John closer to him.

It was a given, Sherlock could remember anything of relevance (keyword: relevance) and John certainly was relevant, and so was the time it took John to go from sexually frustrated to a gasping, sobbing mess pleading to come. Sherlock would also use his prior knowledge of human anatomy (the bit with acupuncture should really through them into a loop) to truly have John at his mercy.

Sherlock is that one person that does everything that doesn't convenience him half-arsed, but with John he would do things right. And if that meant wasting memory space in his mind palace, then so be it, at least he knew he would be able to delete any unwanted information later.

And sadly, if John left him (it was pointless to even consider him leaving John, well unless something really bad happened, so he takes that back.) all of the information he'd have gathered, 'best way to bring partner to orgasm,' 'most sensual style of kissing appropriate for public places,' or anything of that matter Sherlock would find himself erasing. Before John, there hadn't been anyone to catch Sherlock's eye, not even in a friendly manner. And quite frankly, if worse came to light, in the event John was no more, Sherlock wouldn't even entertain the idea of finding another person to share his life with. He could do without the unnecessary drama.

Since Sherlock had decided to worship John, Sherlock thought it was a perfect time to start his worshiping of John's body. With one of his hands, he tangled his long, pale fingers through John's hair tugging slightly at the ends drawing John in further to a state of oblivion. Sherlock brought his other hand to the back of John's neck, at first, his touch like a plume of a feather.

Then John looked at him through hooded eyes, glazed with insatiate need and John himself closed the distance between their lips fusing them with a force like no other. Sherlock firmly nudged John forward with the hand he'd had placed at the nape of the smaller man's neck forcing the two even closer together than humanly possible.

Sherlock, if he could, although he knew it was preposterous, he wanted to breath John in, to take him into his heart, doesn't matter how, and keep him there for the rest of eternity. It sounded selfish, incredibly so, but Sherlock was tired of looking the other way for the sake of facilitating things. Mycroft was a perfect example.

If Sherlock could and John would allow him, he would spend days on end smoothing kisses over John's skin, only stopping because John would ask to not because Sherlock wanted to. He would caress a sleeping John in the early hours of morning watching the sunset rise outside of the dusty windows of 221B. Sherlock would even play LIFE or (don't make him say it) Cluedo if it meant John would be happy with him.

Sherlock sighed against John's mouth contently (and at time worriedly, these were rather drastic changes) thinking about John and how everything would be if things went forward. And it didn't take John long to realized approximately what Sherlock was thinking about. He sensed Sherlock's sentimental shift in behavior and surprisingly, instead of being squeaked that his partner was going all mushy on him, John sucked on Sherlock's tongue, his version of a reformation, followed by a sensuous hip roll that left Sherlock shivering and aching for more.

John shakily sighed as Sherlock sucked another kiss onto his neck. He wanted to feel John come apart at the seams beneath him, it wasn't enough for Sherlock to already have John blindly bucking and grinding their cocks together. No, Sherlock wanted to savor the taste of excitement on John's skin, to take in as much of the salty heat as he could.

John had had his hands positioned rousingly tight on Sherlock's waist from the beginning. Sherlock appreciated the occasional squeezes he would get whenever John was experiencing sensory overload. However, he believed John's hands could be put to better use in another position, and when he says better use he doesn't mean literally.

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist in hand and pinned both of his arms back against the cool wall. John wriggled weakly under the force of Sherlock's hold, it was more like a testing game to the blond man than a protestation of dominance. John bit his bottom lip and stared intently into Sherlock's blown eyes.

He was asking Sherlock what he would do next, and Sherlock had just the answer to that. With John's hands pinned above his head, Sherlock soothed his tongue onto the skin of the bottom of John's jaw. There the smell and taste of John --tea, grass, pages of a book-- was the strongest. After each lick, Sherlock would gently blow over the area and watch the hair on John's skin rise, and the goosebumps appear.

That is the effect he had on this marvelous creature, who truly, if you asked Sherlock shouldn't be that turned on by a bit of blown air. Which was why Sherlock was convinced John was, and would always be the only human anomaly he'd ever meet.

John was a contradiction at its finest, his taste resembling a holy potion of sin and divinity. John was the sun and the moon, thunder and clear skies. John was consistent but unpredictable, he was water and fire. But best of all, John was Sherlock's for the rest of the night.

The hardness in John's pants had been evident before, but Sherlock felt as John's eager cock twitched against his stomach. John ground up seeking for any friction between his cock and the damned layer of clothes still standing in the middle of Sherlock and him. Sherlock keened dramatically (when does he not, act dramatically that is) when John caused Sherlock's fly to graze his cock wonderfully.

John growled at the sound of Sherlock becoming undone, John's chest rumbled against Sherlock's rib cage causing him small tremors. Sherlock had to close his eyes, the sensation of touch, the temperature rising steadily around them, his brain seconds away from malfunctioning. Sherlock was convinced he wasn't in his body anymore, it was that much the effect it had on him.

Sherlock felt as John's ribs expanded for air, "Let me see your eyes, Sherlock." said John in a honeyed voice, actually it was more of a command.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open for John feeling compelled to follow every one of John's order to the tee. He never knew what surprise John might have in store for him if he was a good boy.

John grunted his approval at Sherlock's compliance and Sherlock watched the last modicum of self restraint vanish from John's eyes. John ravenously descended onto Sherlock's neck being so it was the closest to John's lips at the time. John mouthed along Sherlock's jaw eliciting rich, molten groans from Sherlock, however, not hard enough to leave any lasting marks or bruises. John would leave those in places on he would be privileged enough to see.

Sherlock angled his head farther back so John would see himself forced to move down his throat, perhaps even leave him with several gifts along the way. But John would be having none of that, John figured it would be his turn at the helm and he would take as much advantage as he could.

John secured both of his arms on either side of Sherlock's shoulder blades and held tight to the towering man. He still couldn't even fathom that this glorious man had asked him on a date, that the date had gone (somewhat) successful, and now, said man was snogging him like there as no tomorrow. Dreams really do come true, and John had never been able to say that from experience.

But then it came to John that perhaps all of this could still be a dream, again with the contradiction but he couldn't help it. But John had told himself ever since a few seconds ago that if this in fact did happened to be a dream, a figment of his imagination, then he wanted it to be one he'd remember for the rest of his life. If he was on his death bed and all he could think about was this could've-been sex fantasy, then he'd done it right.

John spread his legs open and the implication couldn't have been anymore obvious. John was presenting himself for Sherlock, pleading with Sherlock that he was free to do with as he pleased as long as he acted quick. Sherlock wanted to touch, to feel, and John was practically sobbing to be touched, the small wet patch on the front of his trousers was evidence enough.

And for Sherlock, not only was he happy to oblige to John's needs, it had been a fantasy of his to see what was being kept under John's zipper.

Sherlock considered it unfair John already knew what to expect when his pants came off, so it was Sherlock who was being kept in the dark. He hadn't gotten the chance to see, or touch, mind you any part of John's that hasn't been seen by practically everyone else. (Sherlock was pretty sure the ankle he'd seen, as did Soo Lin, earlier at the restaurant could attest to his complaints.)

John had had the chance to hold Sherlock's leaking cock in his hands. He had felt the soft, velvety skin of Sherlock's prick slide against his palm, he'd felt the thick, jutting veins running down his length before moving on to thumb the head of his penis.

And that's the point. Sherlock hadn't gotten the chance to do any of that. And it was about time that all changed.

Sherlock nudged his knee into the vee of John's legs then dropped his chest onto the upper half of John's body. The reactions from the shorter blond were immediate, not to mention a mouthwatering experience.

Even though John had his back pinned against the wall by Sherlock, the litany of his throaty moans and gasps came off sounding distinguishably sexy timbre, and quite dignified if you asked Sherlock. Very unlike the sounds Sherlock had often heard from the several aborted porn videos he'd observed for a case. (What other reason could Sherlock possibly have to watch porn videos, he knew damn well how to satisfy his sexual itches without the help of two equally inexperience teens solving their extremely inconvenient borderline unfortunate situations with sex.)

But he digressed, John felt heavenly pressed up against his palpitating chest, and it had been a wicked move on John's behalf when John he'd brought them even closer together, his muscular arms bearing down on Sherlock's back. And then, when suddenly, John's erratic breath sounded from next to his ear, Sherlock's knees threatened to buckle under the massive accumulation of nirvana.

John was muttering sweet nonsenses pausing in between certain words to arrange kisses over Sherlock's collarbones all the way up to the crown of his head. John's kind and reassuring, however, had been quite deceiving in nature considering how John choose that moment to hook his left leg behind one of Sherlock's. John lifted and angled his hips just so that even the slightest movement, Sherlock experience the wonderful occurrence of friction.

But what felt even better about their new position was feeling --the very impressive, if he may add-- outline of John's erect cock bucking up against his, the reason for the friction driving Sherlock crazy. He could very explicitly feel the shape of John's cock, and Sherlock had decided. He'd had enough with all the teasing, and foreplay, what he really needed was John, and his irresistible everything.

Sherlock slowly ran his fingers down the side of John's body as he studied John hungrily, his eyes burning a hole into John's before stealing a kiss from John's lips. Moments of breathless bliss later, one set of long, spidery fingers inched their way upwards to where John's nipples would be, brushing over the bumpy sides of John's ribs. Sherlock placed that hand over John's breastplate and moved the other to snake around the blond's lower back.

Using the arm slung around John, Sherlock positioned John even closer to him (his prick), the burning heat of their pricks practically seared through their clothes as they slotted together.

Sherlock salivated at the feel of John's hard on next to his, and to say he was in euphoria would be an understatement. Hormones poured into his bloodstream, a veil of lust clouding his eyes, the world around Sherlock began to slowly dissolve. It was now just him and John, everything else becoming white noise, fading, dissolving, irrelevant to Sherlock and his notice --John Watson that was.

Sherlock wasn't the only one being driven by lustful hunger, John accentuated his movement of his gyrating hips before latching onto Sherlock's lips. John's lips were demanding but soft against Sherlock's, his tongue teasingly poked against Sherlock's lips only to retreat back into his own mouth. Sherlock groaned in frustration, how dare John play with him like that? Sherlock broke away slightly from John, he would show John who was in charge, but he hadn't considered how absolutely devastating the distance would be.

John exhaled at the sudden loss of pressure and reached out for the hand Sherlock had placed on his chest. John took Sherlock's hand in his and slid it down to the fly of his jeans. (Who said distance could be such a bad thing.) Reasonably so, Sherlock gasped gutturally and shuddered in unadulterated bliss.

John's bulge twitched within seconds of Sherlock placing his hand over it, and immediately Sherlock became addicted to the sound of John whimpering, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and a patina of sweat shining on his forehead. John sounded like, smelt like sex, tasted of sex, and looked like the epitome of sexual fantasy.

Therefore, Sherlock had no other reason but to believe John was born for the sole purpose of scrambling his thoughts pumping him full of sex-craved desires. Not that he minded of course, as long as they were all of John.

John hastily nudged his hips on Sherlock's palm with his hard cock, it was arguably the undoing of Sherlock and the last modicum of genteelness left in him. His shivering fingers scrambled to undo the zip of John's trousers, it was a force greater than him that needed Sherlock to get into John's pants at all costs.

The sweet sound of rasping metal was bliss to both men's ears. It meant Sherlock was one step closer to skin on skin contact with John, and towards what is considered one's most personal, private place.

Sherlock felt a nonsensical sense of fulfillment realizing someone, let alone John someone as deserving and worthy as John had considered, and then willingly chosen to participate in nature's oldest, most intimate dance. An armada of butterfly wings drummed against the wall of Sherlock's heart, an indescribable surge of adoration rippled through his spine like the aftershock of an earthquake.

The combined sound of their pleasure resonated through the stifling hot air around them. Staggered moans, artless bucking of the hips, their kiss growing increasingly uncoordinated. Sherlock had hooked his thumb inside the opening of John's pants, an unspoken promise of what was to come. Tentatively removing his hand from the open flap of denim, Sherlock pressed the heel of his palm on the solid weight of John's erection. John held back a whine and sought out to claim Sherlock's lips once again.

Sherlock pressed down on his hand even harder, "Let me hear you, John. I want to hear every single noise you make." His voice taking on a slight vindictive snarl, but all the better because John had a thing for men who liked to played rough.

It was all too much for John and yet not enough. Full, sculpted lips pressed against his, slender fingers burning a path across his lower half, and the incredible sensation of Sherlock's fully erect penis next to his.

An explosion of intense pleasure erupted within John as Sherlock finally slipped his hand down his trousers and now only a thin layer of cotton separated John's aching cock from Sherlock's skin. Sherlock had been somewhat in control of the pace since the start, (except for the short amount of time when John had unfairly managed to abort any movement on Sherlock's behalf, but c'est la vie) now he planned to use it to his advantage and ease the speed of their kissing. Sure, kissing John was great, but giving John an experience of a lifetime was much more important.

Sherlock slid his hand even further down into John pants, the feeling of a solid cock under his hand was mind numbing. He revealed in the feeling of John hot and heavy in his hands, greedily hoping John would beg him to get on his knees and take John's dewy cock head inside his mouth. John would arc with every suck or swallow, he would fall limp when Sherlock would touch the puckered entrance using the tip crooked tip of a finger.

Sherlock's imagined all the things and then some he could do to and with John, whether it be now in the dim lighted hallway, or in either of their dorm rooms some other night. But the more ideas Sherlock came p with, the more evident it became that John's underwear needed to come off sometime within the next two minutes. He wouldn't stand letting a piece of clothing be what cock blocks him and John for the rest of the night.

John growled as he felt long fingers wrap around the outline of his prick, Sherlock stoked John trough the cotton at a frustratingly slow speed. Sherlock chuckled and licked a striped up John's jaw before provocatively biting the lobe of John's ear.

John jerked forward violently at the feeling of Sherlock's open mouth skimming dangerously down the length of his neck. Sherlock was up to no good as John also felt the faint scraping of teeth. Sherlock deliberately scattered bite marks against John's flushed, golden skin like the constellations in the night sky.

It would be next to impossible for John to pass off the blue-black bruises without using a ridiculous excuse, or an abnormally large man-scarf. John, now had two options, either he ignored the rumors and kept to himself, or let nature run its course and hopefully carry out enough damage control as to not get him nor Sherlock assaulted in some way on a daily basis. What he did know, was that he wouldn't go around playing the hickey off as another female conquest, as Sherlock would say (in fact, has said to him before). His heart belonged to Sherlock, and it would make John unbelievably upset to see the man who he could possibly come to love be in such pain.

Sherlock, too worried about John and his sexual interest in both female and male partners. If it were Sherlock who showed up with a multitude of love bites on his neck the next day, the natural assumption his fellow (enemies) peers would make would be that his vacuum was out seeking revenge. But this was John they were talking about, John the sexy, charismatic ladies man who had no trouble charming his way into anyone's pants, not even Sherlock the human with a robot heart.

The more marks on John's neck the more pats on the back the blond boy would get from the rest of the rugby team, and shortly thereafter, the rest of his school year. And since John wasn't an idiot, or at least from what Sherlock had seen, it would be so simple to say he spent the last night in a steamy love affair with a busty blonde who brought her friend to spice things up.

And no one would even question John or how incredibly horrendous and unsafe his threesome sounded. Come to think of it, John would get so much kudos for pulling on a school night especially with mid terms coming up that John would forget all about Sherlock, who could only offer vanilla sex at best, and revert back to deviant bimbos.

Sherlock would be forgotten by John the second he was reminded about how exciting and normal it is to be with a woman by his side. Why did Sherlock have to be so boring, even worse, practically virginal. The most experience he'd had prior to John's exceptionally done hand job in Lestrade's classroom had been a short session of lighthearted groping in Victor's room. And that was before Sherlock came to his senses, moved Victor's hands from where they were grabbing his arse, and excused himself for the foreseeable future.

But Sherlock couldn't let himself ruminate on such dark thoughts considering he had John shamelessly moaning and grinding for him, all for him. John grunted as Sherlock left more bite marks, he wanted to mark John up regardless of what people would think the come morning rise.

"Sherlock, go easy on the biting. Not that I'm not for it, I just don't fancy people asking if I've been attacked or something like that." John sounded amused, not at all the voice of someone embarrassed or that has something to hide. "Whatever happens between us should stay between us, everyone else can go to hell for all I care." Well Sherlock, there you go, just like you thought, John has nothing to be ashamed of.

Sherlock rose from planting one final bite fresh onto the taut column of John's neck, John turned his head to catch Sherlock's swollen lips with his. Surprised, Sherlock squeezed the hand over John's cock and both boys moan into each other's mouths in wanton unison.

John's firm lips pressed roughly back into Sherlock's silencing any last whispers of doubts that could've been running through his harebrained imagination. The increasing hunger and intensity of their movements resembled those of a feral animal who has spotted its next meal.

John tongued at the seam of Sherlock's stubborn mouth, the brunet was playing hard to get ever since Jon had taken it upon himself to steal Sherlock's reigning thunder. John placatingly arched his lower half into the hand Sherlock was using to palm his weeping cock. This way, not only did Sherlock feel more in control (and respected, just don't mention this last bit), but it moved them a step closer towards the end goal of optimal nakedness, stubborn cum stains in numerous questionable places, and if they were feeling frisky, shooting for multiple orgasm. Really trying to make use and enjoy their youthful age, basically. And with John foregoing all normal protocol of his (what Sherlock considered) dominant side continuously offering his libidinous, wanton body for Sherlock's enjoyment, Sherlock had no idea what he would do with his life.

Because it was either that, a tame, docile John Watson melting into Sherlock's arms, or the John Watson he was faced with now. The wholesome man guiding Sherlock into oblivion, and he couldn't be any more grateful.

Sherlock gasped at John's sudden, bold move and John took advantage to shove his tongue into the wet warmth of Sherlock's mouth. He felt around the inside of Sherlock's mouth, tracing, feeling, claiming every centimeter as his. John had made Sherlock ceed control of that giant brain of his for a short period of time, and Sherlock funnily, Sherlock was letting him.

Every nerve ending on Sherlock's skin was lit aflame, John had that affect on him and it left him both deliriously happy. Sherlock was through the roof and yet another wave of endorphins prickled the underneath of his skin. John tightened his hold on Sherlock's calf slamming he taller boy flush against his body, his thin arm trapped between the two bodies. Two could play at that game, so he moved the hand on John's chest only to run his fingers through the straw colored stands of John's hair. Sherlock curled his fingers pulling tight his short nails lightly scratching the top of John's scalp.

If Sherlock had known how sensitive John would be to having his hair pulled he sure as hell would've tried something earlier. John was lost to the rest of the world, and technically so was Sherlock.

Which was why they almost missed the sound of the broken fire exit door opening somewhere to their left in the corridor. The sound of the opening door itself hadn't been loud, just a clicking of the lock, a swoosh of air to follow. But what had caught their attention, namely Sherlock's, had been the banging sound of weighed metal slotting back into its door frame.

Drunken giggles reverberated throughout the hallway, droning whispers, and the click of heels. A raiding of sounds closing in on them to puncture the sacred veil of sensual worship. And but of course, the group of students were heading in Sherlock and John's direction, they couldn't have possibly lived on the other end of the building because that's life. And life is a bitch (but hopefully, a kind one even if it was just for a half an hour, or until Sherlock and John finished whatever it was they wanted to do).

Sherlock was furious, his skin growing hotter and his breath became ragged and labored. John appeared to be on the same page as Sherlock, however, he seemed to be the calmer head between the two opting for a more sensible approach to solve their predicament.

And at least walking would be easier now that their arousals had waned thanks to the sheer shock they'd experienced seconds ago. Nevertheless, persistent as always, Sherlock continued to feel the flickering embers of lust being doused with gasoline, a lit match (yes, he meant John) teetering on the edge just awaiting to set his insides on fire.

And by god did he hope John felt it too. An insatiable necessity taking root in the most primitive, carnal part of one's brain demanding to please (and conquer if you're into that stuff) your partner. The mutual want to continue rutting against each other, to bite, taste, to suckle on each others skin until the other one is shouting for mercy. Whether he admitted it, even to himself, or not, this was all Sherlock was thinking about as he came to realize the implication of their extra guests dropping by uninvited.

John teared his lips away from Sherlock with an exasperated growl cursing lowly under his breath. Greedy lust blown pupils stared up at Sherlock now marred with a glint of underlying panic.

So it wasn't just him, John felt it too. The fear of having their secret reality outed, for all to see, for all to mock and ridicule at their leisure. That would not be acceptable, not at all.

Sherlock blinked, hundreds of thoughts filtered through his head at once trying to come up with a creative way to avoid future confrontations with the cock blocking squad.

Placing a final butterfly of a kiss onto John's lips, Sherlock used the hand he had moved from John's hair to his wrist sometime during 'that-time-that-should-really-not-be-mentioned-now-if-they-wanted-to-get-out-in-time.' Sherlock tugged John firmly along with him decisively guiding them both in the other direction, away from the raising voices.

John shuffled alongside Sherlock in a stiff yet hurried pace. The horror, not to mention the shame Sherlock felt knowing he was a coward at heart. A proper coward and there was no question about it. John deserved to be shown off, paraded all over campus while Sherlock wore a flashing sign above his head with John's name in neon rainbow letters. Sherlock was supposed to be shouting John's name from every rooftop, yet here he was, shushing John. Subtly would not be his forte, Sherlock thought if he was allowed to brag, especially in Anderson's face, about how great his life was now that John was a part of it.

His heart beat was pounding in his ear, his hands growing clammier by the second. It seemed that no matter how fast or far Sherlock lead John away from the noisy teen, the more Sherlock felt there was someone out there messing with his head. He had yet seen any emergency fire exits, which, mind you, have to be placed five-hundred feet from each other, nor had he seen the stairwell Sherlock swore he walked by more than once on a normal day. (Better yet, he'd passed it not even twenty minutes ago with John.)

Where was that bloody stair case when he needed it?

The voices, although unclear, resonated closer behind the two skittish teens. Slurred speech sounded in between bursts of laughter. Everything Sherlock could deduce from that distance (and nervousness) told him they were catching the group coming back from the new underground club for students that may or may not be run by a well known drug lord.

It was common knowledge amongst the students that anyone caught there (or ratted out) was susceptible to due fit punishment, expulsion being the favorite. And rest assured, the teens would do anything in their power to get away without a scratch from the administration. For example, they could perhaps use the fact that two male students were engaging in explicit actions in a public area, and why not add that it took place during a school night to dig their grave just that bit deeper. And the other group being even the slightest bit drunk really didn't help at all.

But every second Sherlock spent focused thinking about if he were to get caught, the greater the actual chances were he _would_ get caught.

John, thankfully, had been slowly sobering up from both their steamy scene and the whole 'damn, we'd almost been discovered,' mess. So while Sherlock was still being overwhelmed by his subconscious, John had taken it upon himself to find the traveling stairwell as best he could without having any prior knowledge of the building.

John held onto Sherlock's hand tighter to better drag the taller man with him, well, actually, behind him. Sherlock seemed to be trapped inside his mind palace, or so John thought, and from past experiences, John knew better than to disturb his eccentric friend? partner? _boyfriend_? --man whilst he was in there.

He'd lost track of how many people he'd seen Sherlock tear to shreds because they'd been at the wrong place, at the wrong time in the presence of the infallible Sherlock Holmes.

So, John, ever so carefully let Sherlock brood over whatever it was he could've been thinking about. But then John saw himself in a tricky situation, he wouldn't risk doing nothing and get caught like a fool with his fly down (he wasn't stupid, John knew the other students had come back from the drug ring disguised as a club) not only by the drunkards, but also by the university's administration (and students, of course) when they caught wind on the one of the only scandals they could actually deal with without involving the police or angering the money loaded parents of several students.

And it wasn't the John minded getting caught. No, actually, John did mind. It was _his_ business whether or not he dated anyone, and it especially was his business if he dated Sherlock. Knowing pretty much how most people his age thought about things, they would most definitely focus wholly on the fact that Sherlock was a man, and John obviously, too was a man.

It didn't help John that in the past he'd only gone out with women. His friends always telling him have lucky he was because it was like he practically had a selecting pool of sexy women ready to call themselves John Watson's girlfriend.

However, John asked himself, so what? Sherlock could be a sheep for all it mattered and John was sure he would continue feeling the strange lightheaded, bubbling satisfaction he got every time he was even within shouting distance from Sherlock.

Oh shit, bad example, Sherlock couldn't be a sheep because that was bestiality, and whilst John might've been desperate at a time, he hadn't been that desperate to find a relationship. Even if it was with Sherlock, the man of his dreams (yes, that does include the non-orgasm variety) and thankfully it didn't have to come down to that.

Moreover, what would the philosophical debate he was having with himself, in his own head, that made him hypothetically think of Sherlock as a black sheep only to then shag the poor (note: hypothetical!) animal get John anywhere in a successful departure.

It took John (and Sherlock) several more moments stumbling around the dim corridor in half-baked panic before finally finding anything that resembled an exit of sorts.

A set of double doors emptied into a dingy staircase that definitely hadn't seen a bar of soap since the early 80's. But no matter, it was a way out of this fiasco, mind, it was currently their only way out.

And even more to the fact, the voices sounded further away, John estimated three, maybe four in total, distant and fading. But for now, the two teens were in the clear. The question, however, being, for how much longer?

John knew that getting away with hallway sex was too good to be true, still he'd hoped. There was always room for a little hope, wasn't there? So close, yet so far. Sherlock had been deliciously palming at his cock, and shuddering beautifully against his skin mere minutes ago. Now they were in the midst of their own Mission: Impossible-- wank protocol. Had that all really been only a few minutes ago? The thing with Sherlock and the moaning and the...best not go there, he needed most if not all of his attention focused on solving this hell.

John pushed on the metal bars and the doors gave way for the two boys with Sherlock stumbling drunkenly behind John as he crossed the threshold. The scuffling sound of Sherlock's sneakers against the cement bounced against the graffitied walls and echoing up a winding staircase. Food scraps, and wrappers, and papers formed a grubby path up along the rest of building. Or in a more positive light, as long as John followed the... dirt road, he would reach the correct floor hopefully in the next minute or so. Time was of the essence, and John wasn't particularly in a betting mood.

"It's on the second floor," muttered Sherlock next to John's ear before starting on the stairs scaring the hell out of John. However, it was proof enough (sort of, maybe) for John, Sherlock was in the process of getting back into his groove. Gaining back control of his sharp mind, putting his quicksilver eyes to good use. Good ole Sherlock Holmes coming back online, hallelujah.

John nodded curtly although it went unseen before mounting the stairs after Sherlock. His compact, muscle dense --fine, fine, his shorter legs struggled to catch up with Sherlock's longer, and leaner ones.   
By the time the two teens had reached the second floor landing, John, while not exactly out of breath, felt winded and just about ready for a nice sit down. And if he was exceptionally lucky, he'd get a cuppa, too. (But god only knows if Sherlock had tea or mugs back at his dorm, he didn't seem like the type to invest time or money giving into British stereotypes.)

Sherlock, who seemed to be even more within his faculties, directed an amused smirk John's way, it was as if he sensed John's fatigue and urgent need for a good milky brew. So, like the good potential boyfriend he hoped he was, Sherlock wasted no time in opening the second set of metal double doors that would lead them into the second level of dormitories.

 _Sherlock's room is somewhere on this floor, he's bringing me to his room,_ thought John. A thrilling zip of anticipation barreled through the wall of his previous insatiable arousal. He felt like a lamb being led into the lion's den, but this time, the lion was unbelievably gorgeous, smart, and made John feel alive. John wasn't threatened by the opening of the cave. No, he was longing to reach the portal between this life and the life he could have with Sherlock. A blissful, happy life.

And for an added sense of deja vu, just as John was about to pass through the doors, Sherlock let go of his grip on the door. This sent John stumbling back a few steps if he wanted to avoid a decent sized bruise on his forehead.

Although this time, it seemed Sherlock either had fallen (deliberately) blind to this oversight, or he couldn't be bothered with niceties twice in one night. Whatever the case was, John smiled warmly at the boy he'd chosen to trust his heart with, and went on to walk down the carpeted floors.

John half walked, half jogged to catch up with Sherlock who had already been half way down the corridor taking in his surroundings with a wary eye. The feeling of dread, and foreseeable (as far as he was convinced) lost from earlier had shaken Sherlock harder than he'd like to admit, ever. But John knew better than to trust each and every word to come out of Sherlock's mouth.

Sure, before the events of this week, John had never formally spoken to nor approached Sherlock. It was like he'd said before, knowing what something is, is knowing what it isn't. And John knew for a fact Sherlock felt uncomfortable with the sudden emotional shift. Even if it was just from watching Sherlock across the classroom. John taking the time and effort to study the otherwise unnoticeable nuances, or ticks, the plebeian-like phrases used around him serving as a catalyst to the already building human volcano of drama, derision, and instigation that was Sherlock Holmes.

John had witnessed probably almost every rumor to have been thrown around about Sherlock, and while he believed none to be true, he'd certainly had been one to question why (perhaps where, depending on what he'd heard) the rumor came to be in the first place. What had Sherlock done to cast yet another target on his back that week, or day depending on how deep he'd dug himself into his own grave.

John wanted to believe he was somewhat liked amongst the Bart's students. Overall, he seemed to have plenty of friends, acquaintances? peers? And usually the more well-liked you are, the more the favors were supposed to come in one's way, right? Did life actually work like that for some?

But John wasn't all that remarkable on his own, nor was he bosom buddies with any of the football players. What he was, was friends with people like Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper, and thanks to the constant badgering of those two, Sherlock Holmes now joined the list.

It was people like them that encouraged John to be the good person John knew was buried somewhere under the disappointment and mortification of his youth. If only he could forget his lousy father who wasted his life chasing the bottom of a liquor bottle. Or his sister who's coming quite close to a repeat performance of their father.

The moment John had set eyes on Sherlock, he'd know that the other boy had been a blessing in disguise. Without shame, John admitted to have heard the calls of temptation of the razor blades in his toiletry kit. God forbid indulging in a pint, even if it was just one,although he knew how to control himself hopefully. But one look in Sherlock's way and it was like the empty space of nothingness within him overflowed up with the prospect of excitement and brilliance. With the prospect of Sherlock.

John owed Sherlock so much, so very much and he worried he'd never be able to repay Sherlock for bringing him back into the real world. However, on the other hand, Sherlock, too saw John as a resuscitator, as the glue that kept his pieces from falling apart. It was a great feeling for Sherlock to finally be needed, but, not that he was likely to admit, he equally enjoyed the awareness of needing the presence of someone else, and by someone else he meant just John.

In the matter of days, the two boys who had never once before interacted with each other had grown to be vital parts of each other's lives. It made John giddy just thinking about how he'd won Sherlock over, and sure one could argue John's methods had been rather persuasive, but Sherlock wasn't one to do something out of pressure. Sherlock had voluntarily participated in the exchange of notes --after some convincing-- also Sherlock never pushed John away once the naughty fun had begun.

So either this was a one time deal with Sherlock, or John truly had hit the jackpot. John had managed to score, although debatable, the greatest partner to have by his side.

John's blood was running electric with every step he took closer to Sherlock, closer to the door room in which Sherlock lived his day to day life in. It was silly, John knew that much, but he couldn't help his mind running wild, and not in a dirty way. Okay maybe in a slightly dirty way but most of his thoughts were out of the gutters.

Sherlock was inviting him into his personal space, into the space he will always go back to at the end of the day. How many other men had Sherlock brought back into his room? Was it five? four? Or was John the only exception? The first man to get a behind the scenes look at what goes on when Sherlock Holmes isn't showing off or making people cry/slap him on the face.

Should that be something John should feel honored about? Even if it wasn't, John would wear it on a badge if he could --or if Sherlock wanted him to, either was fine. John would wear it on his chest, smack dab at the center of his chest. A band of brass held tight atop of his heart for the world to read, 'Sherlock Holmes thinks I'm worthy enough to talk to and he trusts me, Sherlock bloody trusts me.' What a stunning pin that would be.

Damn it, John was in need of a reality check. He needed to tone down the whole mushy, touchy feely sentimental crap, and it wasn't because he was harboring any worry about his non-existing machismo, but because he knew it would get old --fast. Not only for Sherlock who was unaccustomed to the exchanging of emotions, but also John himself. John, the medical student who'd decided to join the rugby team because padding wasn't required and it took up time in between studying and exams, at times it even replaced certain exams.

Speaking of which, John had spent all that time solely of Sherlock and miraculously functioning on autopilot. The short blond had managed to miss the rather important bit where they'd reached Sherlock's room. Surprising, no? Considering it was the thing John had been looking forward to the most.

A painted black door with golden brass numbers stared back at John. Sherlock off to the side directed John an indulgent smile of affection, rare to others, however, John reveled in each and everyone that came his way.

If John had thought Sherlock wouldn't have noticed John floating on his own up in cloud nine, then he was gravely mistaken. Sherlock had caught every single second of John's dreaming, distant expressions. Instead of being worried, Sherlock had kept in mind what they'd been doing not so long ago and where they were heading now, and put two and two together.

It didn't take a genius, although it was a convenient bonus he was indeed one, to safely say John was thrilled with the aspect of being placed inside four private, secure walls whilst being given the change to submerse himself with the smaller details of Sherlock's life.

But a factor Sherlock forgot to calculate was the surprising absence of sexual drive John now felt. John actually just wanted to spend his time, yes, time with Sherlock talking and getting to now one another, location notwithstanding.

John, the saint, would choose the company of Sherlock over another short, heated affair with Sherlock, his partner-to-be, any day. John was keeping his hopes up it went the same both ways. What a shame it would be to find out Sherlock had simply chosen John as a different form of mental exercise. He could be an experiment to Sherlock, a compliment of observations and data, more and more question based lists to check off only to pack up at the end of the day to bid his farewells.

But as Sherlock shoved his way inside 221B, John had only seconds to decide if this was truly what he wanted. Did he want to walk through that door knowing he would be opening a new future for himself, a future that included the presence of an insufferable git that drove him up the wall but made his heart swell with happiness and love?

After he set foot (if he were to, John still hadn't decided) across the threshold into Sherlock's room, that was it. His mind would be made up and there was nothing anyone could do to persuade him otherwise.

  
John was in fight or flight mode. Did he fight his instincts and stay by Sherlock's side? Throw caution into he wind and let his heart fall carelessly in love with the mad man? His heart thrashed like a captive bird beating its wings against the cage of his ribs, asking to be set free, begging to spread out its wings and soar.

Or did he do the exact opposite? It wasn't too late for John to make up an excuse, honestly, it would be a little white lie. He would only go as far as leaving Sherlock for the night until he got his head straight. It was laughable at how easy it would be to come up with a plausible excuse even if his execution was convincing to no one.

John had a test early in the morning and had a long night of cramming ahead of him. John had wanted to make sure Sherlock got back to his room safe but hadn't meant to invade his privacy. John wanted to take things slow with Sherlock, he especially didn't want Sherlock to feel at all rushed into doing anything he might question later on.

Those were just a few of the things John Watson could say to Sherlock at the moment and walk away with his hands clean, free from blame or guilt. No one could blame John for doing the right thing, could they?

But sometimes the right thing was boring, incredibly so. John wasn't worried about Sherlock or the whole the coveting of his virtue. Sherlock, as he kept saying, was a big boy. He could protect himself, and it has been proven countless of times before. Sherlock and the mouth he had on him wasn't just for looks.

John came to the conclusion that if Sherlock was feeling wary or uncertain about anything, anything at all, he would come out and speak to John. And with that thought secured into his head, John finally allowed himself to awkwardly step into Sherlock's dorm.

The distinct smell of Sherlock --a vanilla lavender, rubbing alcohol, and the smoky smell of cigarettes-- hit John like a wrecking ball. There was no doubting a certain Sherlock Holmes lived there.

Dorm 221B was nothing special, two beds spread equal distance across the room each with the added bonus of a desk, and, ooh, a drawer for clothes. One half of the room for Sherlock, and the other half meant for a room mate. Except in Sherlock's case, there was a bed currently trapped under an avalanche of crumpled clothing, whilst the other bed had journals and textbooks strewn about. Any possible empty space was made up for by loose papers covered in chicken scrawl.

After John had noticed the beds and how decidedly Sherlockian in nature they were, he took a better look around the room and then it hit him. It was extremely likely Sherlock didn't have a roommate.

The skull on the far right desk had been a dead give away. Taking John's training in the medical field into consideration, he knew a real human skull when he saw one.

And no, he didn't think Sherlock was a serial killer just because he kept another human's skull sitting on the desk he finished homework on. Like, Sherlock couldn't be the only one that did that, right? There must be others out there, but no matter if there wasn't. That's what he liked about Sherlock, how different he was from the rest and how possibly loving him felt like an injection of the world's most dangerous custom drug.

Mountains of books were placed haphazardly on various surfaces, that even included the surfaces with rounded tops or curved edges. (John guess he could say Sherlock liked to live on the edge). However, least surprising of all was the professional-looking compound microscope nestled amongst an army of glass beakers, bottles of chemical solutions, a rather expensive looking laptop. Also --was that an actual toe suspended inside a gelatin mold?

A miracle it was --and slightly impressive, not that he encouraged the slovenly-- Sherlock ever got any work done with all that mess, John wouldn't even know where to begin. But even more so that Sherlock had composed some of his most luminous of ideas on that desk, in this room, and hopefully not next to the gelatinous toe goop.

All in all, Sherlock's room was a scientists' paradise and precisely everything John had predicted to see from the gorgeous man. The very one that now stood by the foot of the farthest bed, hands held together behind his back and his eyes facing the floor.

Sherlock's curls obstructed John's ability to gauge the other man's wavering expression. Who knew Sherlock Holmes had a shy side to him? John had suspected it but seeing it for himself made it all the much better.

John looked around the room one last time before focusing all of his attention on Sherlock, who had now progressed to a slight shifting bordering anxiously on his toes. Could Sherlock truly be that nervous about John, his one true match, being present in his room? However, the true question being if Sherlock could by any means be anymore nervous than John? Not likely but, hey, who was John to tell Sherlock how to feel.

John coughed, "So, this is your room," he pointed his chin in the general direction of Sherlock's...stuff. Sherlock sharply raised his gaze to better watch John speak. "I'm not surprised, you know? It's very, you, in a way."

John snorted with, certainly not at Sherlock when the usually fluent, outspoken man began sputtering random snippets of words before finally stringing together a sentence, "How do you mean? How is a room very much like me, John for I see no similarities. I believed you to be at least smart enough to know a room is incapable of inheriting human traits, especially those associated with someone as mentally superior as myself."

A rosy blush colored Sherlock's sharp cheekbones despite the barrage of intended insults he was throwing John's way. And John couldn't have adored the man anymore even if he tried.

Here was a perfect example of a Sherlock switched onto his default defense setting. Unable to take a compliment, yet still blushing and stuttering with incomparable joy shimmering in his liquid silver eyes.

Sherlock looked absolutely magnificent standing beneath the cheap florescent lights of 221B. His skin, his hair, the bow of his lips, the way Sherlock was looking at him with those eyes.

John felt as if a switch had been flipped inside of him. No longer was he looking at Sherlock through a screen of solely admiration and adoration, but John now found himself looking through a trickier, more sensitive veiling. And quite frankly, it was terrifying for John to look through.

Thinking of Sherlock as a 'fling' or nothing more than a casual flame cause John to cringe. It was completely disrespectful not only to John but also to Sherlock to be thought of in such average terms when John (and Sherlock as well) had more than enough...fondness to pass around.

The more John reflected about the topic of Sherlock along with everything John had began planning he'd wanted to do with the boy. The more John realized how far ahead he was actually planning. How John had began imagining Sherlock by his side even through the more domestic, and naturally more mundane parts of the day.

In the span of the few days before their first date, John had soppily reached the point that he sometimes wondered even pictured the barbarities Sherlock would come up with if he were to be in the same room as John and his crappy telly shows.

John played out scenes of him and Sherlock lounging about on a weekend after a stressful week of exams, experiments in Sherlock's case. Sherlock would be curled up on any flat surface that was capable of holding his weight and John would be dutifully making tea.

Sometimes, John would picture Sherlock and him at the beach. John evilly cackling at Sherlock because he'd forgotten the sun's foremost objective in the summer to provide heat. Moreover, Sherlock's refusal to sweat (sorry to break it to you, honey) or get his skin penetrated (Sherlock there will never be a good enough excuse to use the word 'penetrate' outside of the bedroom) by cancerous UV rays.

John saw him and Sherlock staying in on rainy days ordering takeout (chicken curry, of course) because they were too lazy to change out of their robes...and for other reasons.

John knew, he just knew this wasn't what the everyday 'date' envisioned when they planned a date. Evermore so, John knew other blokes especially didn't think about early morning risings _a year_ down the road during the _first_ date. But as John kept repeating to himself, this was Sherlock and nothing to do with or about Sherlock was ever easy.

And inevitably John mulled over his thoughts further, he rather enjoyed the sickly sweet churning feeling he felt in his stomach at every mention of Sherlock's name or a date idea he undoubtably found... _agreeable_. Called him a masochist, but the excitable yet painful contracting of his heart seemed reasonable enough every second Sherlock spent by his side.

That was until it dawned on John exactly where his train of thought had dared to venture to, the destination left him slightly more devastated. (Well he wouldn't go that far)

He was thinking about a word with four letters, care to take a guess which one it could be? That one word, although on paper it may seem tiny and unassuming circled through his head, his thoughts, dear god, it had already started taking over his subconscious.

The less afraid he was of stepping up to the responsibilities that came with the declaration and the more terrified he became with the ease he let himself fall. It had been a long time coming, John should've seen it coming. Really, how stupid could he have been to believe otherwise?

It was apparent, almost translucent really, John now considered Sherlock as his lover, not an admirer, but a lover.

John --well, he --insert the four letter L word here-- Sherlock. And he wasn't afraid to accept it to himself...

...Even if technically he still couldn't say the words out in his head let alone imagine admitting them to Sherlock. Too fast, Watson, it's not a race. What is it they say? Slow and steady wins the race or whatever. John was ready to go as slow and as steady as Sherlock needed even if it meant half a lifetime passed them by only for the benefit to properly call Sherlock his.

Seeing Sherlock stand before him flustered and defensive, his pink bowed lips weighed down in a petulant scowl. John found life just that little bit easier to live with. But if, and hopefully it was more of a _when_ question, he found out Sherlock returned his four lettered sentiment, John's life would be complete. Well, maybe not when John's telling Sherlock off for exploding a good part of the school's lab (yes, this has happened before, people shouldn't be surprised by that) but everything else should be fine, mostly, god willing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyones patiences, I've literally just finished this chapter and here I am updating. Please enjoy and don't be shy!

John needed to get himself new friends, and quick. No, seriously. He was even considering uploading a post on Craigslist to speed up the process. Irene was a strong willed woman with no filter, and whilst sometimes that was a good quality to have --considering John had an affinity of sugar coating everything-- because sometimes it was just the push John needed to throw him over the edge.

Irene was becoming too much for John to handle, and don't be mistaken, John loved Irene to pieces --in the most tolerable, brotherly way possible. Irene had many great qualities and John was testament to that, it's how'd they met in the first place. The Woman had saved John from a particularly horrendous conversation with one of his exes posing as his girlfriend. And by god how incredibly convincing Irene had been that she'd even managed to convince John she was anything but a smug lesbian.

And the very same second Irene had graciously decided to intercept John's otherwise disastrous evening, John had become what you would call Irene's bitch. A day wouldn't go by where Irene wouldn't pull the 'I-saved-your-ass-John-you-owe-me' card. And John being the pushover he is when it came to Irene --she might be a small thing, but she still managed to scare the shit out of John-- he eventually folded to her every whim.

Whether it was trying on half of Irene's closet for her so she could decide what shirt to wear with what skirt. Or chatting up a girl at the local pub to see if she batted for the other team. John didn't particularly mind doing most of the things Irene made him do --that's right, made him do-- but there comes a limit to everything, even John's free will.

And it had made John even more livid when Irene thought it appropriate to bring up the fact he was studying to be a doctor and he should get used to taking orders from his higher ups. And maybe she flung around the words 'hippocratic oath,' and 'mandatory friend obligation.' Okay, that's enough now, thought John as he stormed out of Irene's apartment for the third time that month.

To tell the truth, the feud had begun after John had already spent a few hours lounging (trapped) in Irene's student dorm trying to talk her down from one of her latest hysterics --something about Ballroom A not being available for the LGBT's New Years celebration. John swore Irene would run out of glass items to throw against the wall before her tantrum passed. But this was old news for John, basically an every other day occurrence at the Adler residence. And in moments like those, Irene needed a seasoned pro to gently guide her down from the height of her madness.

In any other case, John would have been paying close to seventy-three percent of his attention towards Irene squeaking and complaining, but today, he was otherwise occupied...on his phone that is. Sherlock needed John's professional advice on some bruising patterns and who was John to deny Sherlock such a simple request John reasoned. On one hand it would help him if he ever decided to get a job in pathology, and Sherlock would get the answers he needed from his new boyfriend. (Yep, it was official now. John had practically had to drag the answer out of Sherlock but it was all worth it once he'd heard the startled muttering coming from Sherlock.)

Sherlock being a man of modern day technology preferred to hold if possible, almost all of their long distance conversations over text. Again, normally this wouldn't have been a problem had Irene not already been in a ballistic mood. But John's phone screen had started to light up like a christmas tree and John hadn't even bothered to answer Irene with one of his half assed hums in the last ten minutes or so.

John had been that caught up in the whole detective fantasy along with Sherlock that Irene had taken it upon herself to slap his, albeit ancient but usable phone out of his hands. "John are you even listening to me? I'm here baring my soul to you, asking for your help and you're what? Texting?" Irene pursed her lips artistically, the blood red of her lip stick added just the right touch of uneasiness. "Who could you even be texting? No offense John but your list of friends is almost non existent, you don't have any friends besides me, you couldn't possibly."

"Usually when people say no offense, it usually does cause offense, for example, now." John threw daggers at Irene. "And who told you I don't have any friends besides you, huh? What makes you so special? I have other friends, other really good friends that I hang out with and talk to just like I do with you. Just because you're Irene bleeding Adler, 'The Woman.' The most sought after person on the campus doesn't mean the whole world revolves around you, you know? But what ever will she do if they found out if little Miss Dominatrix was as bent as a circle."

"You wouldn't dare!" gasped Irene with an affronted look. "It's not the same, you with your friends --or lack thereof-- and my reputation that I've slaved myself to build since the tenth grade."

"And why is that, why are my problems so insignificant compared to yours. Because quite frankly, I'm getting tired of hearing your bullshit day after day complaining why life is hard the second things don't go your way. News flash Irene, nothing is fair in the world, suck it up." John spoke all in one breath, anger boiling deep inside his blood.

"Oh, so that's what you think of me, that I'm just some spoiled brat that whines about everything?" Irene shook her head indignantly. "Wow, some friendship we have. Have you always thought this about me or this a new revelation after finding these new 'friends' of yours?"

Irene sure wasn't happy but John didn't give a shit, it was enough everyone else saw him as a flaky, slightly attractive (in the sense some girls risked a one-off only if they were desperate enough), workhorse, he didn't need his supposed 'best friend' lumping him with the loners as well, and basically claiming that she'd been the best thing that had happened to him after arriving to St Bart's.

"Irene, from the moment I met you, I knew you were going to be a piece of work, I thought that maybe, perhaps it was all for show, some type of face you put on for everyone else. Or I figured I would have a lot of getting used to do." John said just as his phone lit up for the umpteenth time that minute. Sherlock had really started to get antsy then. The mad bugger couldn't just wait for John to respond to his text messages one at a time like a normal person. No, that was too hard for Sherlock to wait anything longer than ten seconds before sending ten more text messages, one for every second John hadn't answered.

And Irene had pointedly watched John's screen flash from where she threw it across the room in her fit of rage. "Well go on then, answer the bloody thing." scorn oozing from her every word. "And you might as well tell me who it is while you're at it. I'm extremely curious as to who is more important than securing the only event worthy venue for the club your the vice-president of."

"You will not put that over me, Irene, don't you dare. That is pure manipulation and you know it, fuck you if you think I'm gonna tell you who's texting me." John was seething now for sure. Full out foaming at the mouth furious.

"And why the hell not. You owe me John or don't you remember how we met, I saved you from your terrible ex. Not to mention every time I've stopped you from leaving your room dressed in those horrid jumpers. Why do you think you get laid at least half those times."

Irene began to walk (stomp) towards the still blinking phone on the rug, a determined, half rabid look on her face. "Oh no you don't." John scrambled to his feet and dashed in the direction of his mobile phone. "I'm done with you prying into my private life, enough is enough, Irene. For now, why don't you just fuck off?"

John hurriedly bent down to pick up his phone before Irene tried anything funny--twenty seven messages and counting-- meanwhile Irene stood frozen by the arm chair starring blankly back at John.

"Fine, I'll 'fuck off.' Consider it done." said Irene in a tone full of derision. Her next words however had no discernible emotion whatsoever and that worried John despite the fact they were in the middle of another war. Irene always displayed some sort of emotion even if it was an obvious poker face. "And now I think it's time for you to get the fuck out of my flat, John. I believe you know the way out."

John pocketed his phone with a big harrumph and stalked out of Irene's dorm not once looking back, no, that would be showing defeat. However, John didn't have it in him to slam the door when he had made his exit because it kind of had been sort of his fault that he'd prioritized Sherlock over Irene especially when Sherlock was halfway across the campus --and the dead guy couldn't get any..deader-- whilst Irene had been inside the room.

Looking back maybe John had been a little more than inconsiderate but in his defense, when had Irene ever considered John's needs before her's? Even for a fraction of a second. John was only doing what was fair from his stand on things.

John put as much distance as he could between the girl's dormitory and himself before he felt a dull ache tingling at the joint of his leg and knee. He hadn't been paying attention as to where he had been walking to, he hadn't thought he needed to.

John's mission had been to get away from Irene before he did something he would regret later. Great, so what's next, what should John do as to not screw up anything else further? Because that's where John had no bleeding clue as to what he would do.

The thing is, sure, whilst he might've been stoically removing himself from the scene of what could've become a murder (fucking Irene and her sticky fingers that had a preference for holding thousand pound riding crops) John had paid no attention to the street signs nor the turns he'd made. Not even any discernible shops that could tell him where he could possibly be, and he was in London, a shady place of London where stores had names like "Bitchin' Kitchen".

Just what he needed, this. To get lost in this beast of a city feeling the hot, furious rush of anger thrumming under his skin still. The evening sun rapidly being replaced by the half-moon, skies turning darker, air colder against his skin. John was incredibly aware at how entirely susceptible he would be if the pitch black of night were to catch him out on the streets.

John had wanted to avoid starting any problems with Irene, he'd wanted to get back to his dorm as soon as possible and with as little casualties as possible. That's what he had wanted, mind. What he'd gotten was lost in the matter of --taking the time to consult his phone clock, about six minutes, give or take.

Hold on, his phone! Just until a few seconds ago, Sherlock had been blowing up John's notifications with his constant commentary, not only was John guaranteed a quick answer but that also meant that he was dealing with a bored Sherlock. If Sherlock had enough time to text twenty-seven times within a minute last John checked, then surely the man was dying to get out of his dorm and quick. Perhaps the bruising patterns hadn't been all what it was cracked up to be. And if that were the case, John would be eternally thankful because he just wanted to get the hell out of...wherever he might be. It was becoming too much of a coincidence how all the shops had metal bars over the windows hiding the fading neon signs.

Okay, first thing John had to do was locate the nearest cross section to see either if Sherlock could swing by to get him or search Google for some directions back to the dorm. (John was heavily considering it was time to invest in a phone that actually contained an internet application and didn't have to be flipped open to be used.)

John scrambled for his coat pockets and pulled out his top of the line Nokia cell phone --thirty-two more messages from Sherlock-- and after a precursory scroll down to judge what mood Sherlock was in he set out to reply one button press at a time. (Yes, you heard right, no touch screen on this beauty. Like come on, who needs a touchscreen anyways? Those were for losers, John preferred the old-fashioned way, always.)

Another message entered his phone, two seconds later came another, then another.

_**What time do people usually eat their dinner?-SH** _

_**Is that the one in the morning? I seemed to have deleted any information on conformational eating, I assume you know why.-SH** _

_**Never mind, I seemed to have remembered. It's the one in the evening.-SH** _

_**Right?-SH** _

_**Dull, you're still not answering my messages John. I could be dying for all you know.-SH** _

_**I'm not-SH** _

_**I'm not dying that is I hope I'm making this abundantly clear-SH** _

_**I, Sherlock Holmes am alive, and will remain so for the foreseeable future-SH** _

_**I didn't mean to make you get worried in the case you were reading these messages and are just deciding to be a massive wanker and not answering-SH** _

_**Sorry about the wanker bit, I remembered that was a bit not good.-SH** _

John was bursting at the seams trying not to laugh at Sherlock's inadvertently hilarious texts, John would become another picture on Sherlock's wall if said detective found out he was the source of John's amusement. With a soft chuckle John looked down at the dial pad and thought of a message to send to Sherlock.

Should he be flirty, but interesting to grab Sherlock's attention...eventually. Or should John try addressing Sherlock head on, no beating around the bush, no wasting time. The latter seemed more likely what Sherlock would do so John settled on that one, and if John had started to look at his surroundings more suspiciously as the sun continued to lower then that was just a coincidence. John blamed the inflation of cab prices for sticking him even further into this disaster.

_That's fine Sherlock, but I left Irene's house in a hurry and now I'm not really sure how to get back to St Bart's._

And now he waited, thought John as he nervously began to twiddle his fossil phone in hand. The cold winter air whistled past John's unmoving figure his natural body heat escaping at an alarmingly rapid pace. John took to flipping his phone open every half minute and then it became ridiculous. Sherlock had texted him god knows how many times because the stupid corpse of a complete stranger had a strange mark on the inside of his thigh (which John was pretty sure it could've been a birthmark but only idiots were "pretty sure")

_This is the part where you text me back._

Another three minutes passed by, and no the air had no plans on relenting.

_That's sort of how texting works you know that right?_

Sherlock was being a massive dick not answering any of John's messages. John was seriously contemplating to plan Sherlock's doing, and the disappearance of his pickled fingers would suffice --for now. It had come to the point that John had moved under the awning of a Chinese takeout store to retain any last drop of warmth that could've possibly remained in his body.

John typed out another message, now he was beginning to get worried, and not only for himself. It wasn't that unusual for Sherlock to ignore his messages if the man was particularly engrossed in one of his experiments. But surely Sherlock must've sensed something had to have been going on. John had already sent the man seven texts in the last five minutes and it wasn't a case of Sherlock's inbox being jammed packed with other messages. The only other people with Sherlock's number besides John was Molly from pathology, Greg who Sherlock never seemed to quite grasp that was his name, Sherlock's brother (John only knew this because Sherlock had asked him ever so kindly to tell Mycroft to fuck off via text), and the Chinese takeaway place around the corner from John's dorm. Never the one by Sherlock if they truly wanted to avoid any possibilities catching salmonella.

_Sherlock? You there?_

_I know you're receiving my messages or my phone would've told me by now._

_What's so bleeding important you can't your eyes off of to help your boy friend --that's me, hello-- finds his way home before he gets brutally murdered with a chicken bone._

_Thanks, Sherlock. I just love being stranded here out on the streets. Ta very much for that._

It had been about eleven-ish minutes since John had sent his first text to John, seventeen if he included the time it had taken him to get dead-ass lost. That's it, first it was Irene, then Sherlock, had everyone suddenly decided to turn on him?

It was obvious Sherlock had no intentions of ever coming to John's rescue, let alone answering any of his messages, so it was high time for John to decide whether he should risk spending close to a month's worth of grocery money an a cab. (It wasn't that John hadn't the money, John was a stingy realist and a cab wasn't a necessary expense)

_Sherlock?_

_Hello?_

_Remember me? John? The guy you've been dating for almost a month now?_

_Hope you haven't deleted that little bit of information. A real pity that would be._

John growled when the seconds continued to roll by and there was no response from Sherlock, and perhaps others would've argued that Sherlock himself could've been in a distressing situation and couldn't've come to the phone. But this was Sherlock they were talking about, John knew Sherlock and he was almost positively sat on the couch with his arse glued to the seat willing the phone towards him because he can't be bothered to stand up.

John would never get back to the dorm block if he waited for Sherlock to do something, anything, so he started steadily walking down the last street he'd come from. It's what made the most sense and even though he was absolutely furious with the man (but no more than Irene) it's something Sherlock would've done. Nah, Sherlock would've already been out of this mess, actually he wouldn't have even gotten himself into it because he would've paid attention to where he'd been walking to and he wouldn't have wandered off in a city with a population in the millions.

After John had turned his first corner, that's when the messages started to pour in, but not the ones he'd been expecting.

**Message 101: This message has not been received by user 020-7946-0088. Please try again later.**

**Message 101: This message has not been receive by user 020 7946 0088. Please try again later.**

**Message 101: This message has not been receive by user 020 7946 0088. Please try again later.**

**Message 101: This message has not been receive by user 020 7946 0088. Please try again later.**

**And one more for every other text he'd sent to Sherlock. You get the drill, basically one for every message he'd sent to Sherlock.**

**An internal error has occurred. Please wait whilst we contact the company.**

**Service has been temporarily been removed from your mobile device. Thank you for your patience.**

Bullocks, thought John. And to think he was finally going to call Greg even after the man had told him not to disturb him under any circumstances, not even if Sherlock found a way to burn Westminster dorm to a crisp or was about to be sentenced before parliament. It was Molly and Greg's date night after babysitting Sherlock all week so John could revise for his toxins exams John did sort of owe the man greatly.

John powered down his phone and restarted it again, nothing. Another wave of error messages floated on his main screen. That was strange.

This time he not only shut off his phone but he also remove the battery, gave it a quick blow (not like that you dirty minded people) around the cartridge, then restarted the systems yet again. Zilch. Actually zero messages showed up on the little envelope icon in the corner of his screen. Good, exhaled John mildly relieved, maybe now he could send out a text and not be assaulted by his telephone company.

John waited to see if he would eventually get any bars on his phone, how else could he send a message to Mike, Greg was a no-go. But time continued to pass by and his phone was still out of service.(John was now a hundred percent sure he would be buying himself a new phone before the week was up.)

And it couldn't be said John hadn't tried to get signal back into his phone because he had. More than once, John had walked up and down the same street holding his phone over his head at varying angles awaiting any response.

It was a while later when John turned another left on another familiar(?) corner that he heard a ping emanate from his hand. And not only was it a ping but a ping with a message attached to it. Sherlock?! It's about time.

Hello John Watson, you look to be a little lost.

That was weird, thought John, what was the probability of an unknown number texting him not only when he has no service, but using his entire name --and had they said something about John being lost?

John looked up and down the street, his suspicion was going through the roof and he'd seen three cars roll down their windows as they passed him by.

_I'm sorry, but who's this? I don't have your number saved on my phone._

Pay no attention to the unknown number, John. That is not of relevance to out conversation.

_What do you mean conversation, you texted me all of a sudden and I'm pretty sure you're following me or something._

Nothing like that John. How ordinary of you to think that.

_Excuse me? I have no idea what you're talking about. What do you even want from me?_

To your left you will see a car, inside the car you will be greeted by my personal assistant. Get inside the car.

_What the fuck? What drugs are you taking?! Do you just expect me to get inside the car of a complete stranger --who I'm pretty sure is a psychopath-- just because they told me to over a text?_

I believe it would be in your best interest to get into the car.

_How would it be in my best interest? I doubt you could have anything on me._

I beg to differ, Mr Watson. What would Sherlock say if he found out about your sister Harry and her rather unsavory drinking problem.

_Woah, now that's crossing the line. How do you even know Sherlock?_

Get in to the car, John

A sleek black car made a smooth stop alongside John on the pavement. John wouldn't even try to say he wasn't feeling a rush of adrenaline, possibly even fear at the thrill of the chase. Nevertheless, he looked at the idling car for sparingly few moments and continued to walk ahead. He wasn't going to let an anonymous voice dictate his life, or his safety.

The purring noise of the car's engine rumbled through the quite streets, the sound got closer and closer to John's retreating body. Hopefully the driver of the car was aborting the missing and leaving John the hell alone. To say the least, John had only shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration when once again the car appeared at his side once again however with a window rolled down half way this time. There was a person inside, a woman on the younger side if they were being exact, staring him down with a snarky glare.

"I believe I'm to take you to my employer's office, Mr Watson. Get into the car, don't make this harder than it has to be." said the shadow from within the car.

John hesitated on the pavement still deciding what he should do. Was this person serious about the whole telling Sherlock about Harry or had that all been a bluff? John didn't need to take that risk but his life was also on the line. Geez his life was complicated, well to be fair it was just today that sucked.

The window rolled down the entire way, John saw the outline of the woman that had told him to get into the car. John's stomach dropped and fell to his feet, his ribs contracting giving his lungs no room to breathe.

He could do this, he could solve this problem whatever the problem was. That was until his phone rang out once again and the inevitable shiver of dread crawled up his spine.

Does there seem to be a problem, Mr Watson?

Then another message.

I believe I asked you to get into the car as did my personal assistant. I don't like not being listened to.

John felt a small, minuscule, practically microscopic dash of fear go through him --perfectly normal he reasoned with himself, he was the victim of of a kidnapping.

Don't be difficult John, think about Sherlock.

John put his hands into his pockets and walked up to the black car he ducked his head and looked through the open window, the woman on the other side was a shapely brunette dressed smartly in a grey skirt suit and the halo of light from her cellphone.

"You said something about giving me a ride." John cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Get in the car." the woman's voice sounded apathetic but serious. Nevertheless, John opened the door and prayed for the best.


End file.
